


The Shop Around the Corner

by apple_pi



Category: The Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-17
Updated: 2009-10-17
Packaged: 2017-10-02 12:51:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apple_pi/pseuds/apple_pi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Billy is a tailor in Glasgow; Dom's an actor in need of a kilt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to those who have suffered through this, including pippinmctaggart and fitofpique, who listened to me bitch and moan and twitch about this for months and months, and tarteaucitron, who provided a _lightning-fast_ Britpick.

The bell over the door gave a cheery jangle when Dom opened it; he stepped into the shop and it jangled again when the door clunked shut behind him. “Just a minute!” came a call from the back room.

Dom dropped his umbrella into the bin by the door. “No hurry!” he called back, and began to wander, looking at the kilts and sporrans and bolts of cloth draped on tables and tailor’s dummies about the room. It was more of a mess than a display area, but Dom didn’t mind. He was leaning close to inspect a rack of garish tartans when the sneezing began.

“Ooh, that sounds nasty,” said the tailor, appearing before him with a handkerchief held foremost.

Dom took it and backed away, still sneezing. “It’s not - ahh - _choo!_ \- that I’m ill.” He sniffed mightily and then blew his nose into the linen. “I’m allergic to wool.” He sneezed again, clutching the cloth to his face, eyes watering.

“Come to the wrong shop then, haven’t you?” The tailor was older than Dom, and rather pixie-ish. Small, and compact, and neat-fingered, which he’d have to be, wouldn’t he? “Here, come over here, I think it’s the most wool-free zone in the place.” He led Dom to a little sitting area with two squashy armchairs and a table, books and magazines strewn across its surface. “Sit down, sit down.”

Dom blew his nose again. “Thanks, thank you.”

“D’you need some water? Tea? Medicine?” He was grinning, the little bastard, but Dom couldn’t help grinning back.

“A bullet to my head?” He wiped at his nose and looked at the hankie. “I think I’ve killed it,” he said.

The tailor held up one hand. “It’s yours now.” He was smiling.

Dom nodded and wadded it up, stuffing it into a pocket. “Well, erm, thank you.” He looked at the man. “I feel rather. Ah. Sheepish.” He grinned.

The shopkeeper burst into peals of high laughter. “As y’should, oh, my, as y’should after saying that,” he gasped. “Really, though, now,” he snorted, settling, red-cheeked and merry, “what can I help you with? Or were you just wandering, looking for a place to get out of our lovely dreich weather?”

“Actually, I need to buy a kilt,” Dom said. “I’m Dom Monaghan,” he added, offering his hand.

The tailor shook it. “Billy Boyd,” he replied. “And are you sure it’s a kilt you need? Seeing as most of them are made of wool, you know.” His eyes sparkled, and Dom’s stomach lurched. Not this again, not now, dammitall.

But the tailor - Billy Boyd - was waiting for an answer. “I’m getting married,” Dom said in a rush. “And I have to wear a kilt. My, ah, my fiancée’s family is quite traditional.”

“That’s bad news,” Boyd said. “Traditionally, you know, you’re going to be sneezing your arse all the way down the aisle.” He didn’t look too terribly upset by the thought. He looked, in fact, as though he wanted to start giggling again.

“Help me out, then,” Dom said, spreading his hands. “I can wear some blends, as long as the wool content isn’t too high. I might get a contact rash...” He trailed off, because the tailor was laughing again.

“I’ll help you, I’ll help you,” he wheezed finally, and Dom glowered for a moment before he smiled.

“I was afraid no one would,” Dom confided. “I went by a couple of the big shops and they looked at me like I’d shit on their doorstep when I said I wanted a kilt not made of wool. And since I didn’t want one in leather, either...” Dom shrugged.

“Aye, bunch of right sods they can be, the traditionalists,” Boyd said, sucking his teeth meditatively. “What _can_ you wear?”

“Anything but wool,” Dom replied. “Or wool in a low concentration. And usually it’s contact that bothers me, I can be around it as long as I don’t, you know.” He made a wry face. “Lean forward and inhale deeply.”

The tailor nodded. “And how much time have we got? I’ll have to order the fabric, since I don’t have much but wool on hand that’s the proper weight. And what tartan, Christ, I hadn’t thought of that -”

“Plenty of time,” Dom said. “The date’s a bit fluid. And cost isn’t an issue, since my fiancée’s family is paying - though please don’t tell them it’s not wool, yeah?” Boyd nodded, eyes glinting as he grinned, and Dom grinned back. “The tartan is, erm, MacTavish - clan tartan.”

“Red and blue, or red and green, or red and blue and green?”

“The, ah, the traditional?” Dom said. “Red and blue, large, erm, squares.”

Boyd whistled and smiled. “Marrying up, are we?” he said, then laughed at Dom’s expression. “M’sorry, m’sorry, just kidding. But is it that MacTavish family?”

“The same,” Dom said dryly. “And yes, I am marrying up. I can’t believe they’ll even let their precious daughter marry someone who is,” he held up one finger: “not a cousin,” another finger, “not rich,” another, “not a Scot,” and one last, “not royalty.” He grinned. “And a lowly actor to boot.”

“Are you an actor, then,” Boyd said vaguely, but his eyes were on the ceiling. “I’ll have to special order the fabric, I think from... no...” His voice trailed off; after a moment he focused on Dom again. “It’ll be a while, Dom – Dom, right? I don’t think the MacTavish tartan is available in anything but wool in these parts, so I’ll have to send off to have it specially made. You’re sure you’ve plenty of time?”

“Oh, well.” Dom laughed, hoping it didn’t come out quite as bitterly as he thought it must. “Between my actorly flakiness and Una’s regular need to put me in my place, I think it’s safe to say that we have time.”

“All right, then.” Boyd was still smiling, a small, private smile. “Well, let’s get you measured, shall we?” He turned to a table and lifted a tape measure from it with a flourish. “You’ll be paying a bit for this today, right?”

~*~*~*~

“Boyd’s Tartans.”

“Um, hi, this is Dom. I came in the other day about a MacTavish tartan...”

“I remember you. What can I help you with?”

Dom rubbed his nose and looked meditatively into his fridge, tucking the phone between ear and shoulder. “I was just wanting to know if you have all the other bits of a proper kiltish sort of, of outfit.”

“Like hose, and shoes, and sporrans and things?”

“I saw you have sporrans, but, ah, I’m not sure what to wear as far as a shirt and jacket and so on.” He closed the fridge and turned to lean on the work top, phone pressed to his ear.

“Ah, well. I assume it’s to be a formal event?”

“The more formal the better,” Dom said dryly.

“Then you’ll probably be wanting a Prince Charlie and a nice weskit...” and Boyd was off, his tenor voice lilting on about evening versus afternoon, silver buckles, flashing (“sounds like fun,” Dom put in, and Boyd snickered before going on), hose, _sgain dubh_ and what was appropriate and inappropriate and when and where.

“And...” Dom was perched on the work top by this time, eating yoghurt from a cup; he swallowed hastily. “...Do you stock all those things?”

“I stock most, and I have catalogues for the others. If you have a chance to drop by the shop I can settle you with a few books and you can have a look.”

“I can do that,” Dom said. “You’re right down from the Pavilion, so.”

“That’s fine. I’m open till six most days. Just stop by whenever you can. And bring your handkerchief.”

Dom grinned. “I should be all right, so long as I don’t have to wear one of your handiworks as a muffler.”

“Ach, and here I had your Christmas present all picked out.”

Dom laughed, startled. “Sorry to ruin your plans.”

“Ah well, suppose I’ll recover. So I’ll see you soon, then?”

“You will. Thanks, um, Mr. Boyd.”

“Billy, please. You’re welcome. Bye.”

“Bye.”

~*~*~*~

“Will the bride be wearing white?”

Dom looked up from his catalogue, startled, and saw Boyd squeezing his eyes shut.

“Sorry, Christ, sorry, I didnae mean it that way -”

Dom laughed. “Don’t worry, I’m unoffendable. How did you mean it?”

The tailor’s green eyes popped open again. “I just meant -” Dom kept snickering, the other man’s face was so very pink – “I meant, what colours is she using, like for flowers and bridesmaids and such. Those’re the colours you should look for, for things like your weskit and such.”

“Oh.” Dom leaned back, hands resting easy over the slick pages of the catalogue. “Well, apparently she’s modelling the whole bloody affair on the cake, of all things.”

“The cake?” Boyd cocked his head.

Dom shrugged. “Apparently. Got some fancy French cake maker, and she meets him on the hour every hour, practically. I think the bridesmaids are wearing blue, though.”

“What kind of blue?” Boyd perched on the arm of the chair, and Dom shifted subtly - closer, then away, looking up at the tailor. He was - dammit. Boyd was too cute for his own good.

“What?” Dom blinked up at him. “Oh. Um. Royal blue, kind of? I think? Like the blue in the tartan, really. Yeah, actually. Just like that.”

Boyd leaned over him, lifting the book off his lap, and Dom folded his hands hastily. “Here, have a look at these,” Boyd said, flipping through the pages rapidly, and Dom tried desperately to pay attention to something other than the man himself.

~*~*~*~

“Boyd’s Tartans.”

“Erm, Mr. Boyd? Billy? This is Dom, with the...” His voice trailed away, waiting for the tailor to remember him.

“I know. How are you? How can I help you?” He sounded brisk, and Dom stumbled over his next words.

“Well, I wondered if you would have room in your schedule to make a few more MacTavish kilts.”

“Well, I, ah - probably. Yes, of course. Still no wedding date?”

“Not to speak of. Una’s talking about April... or May. Or June.”

Billy laughed, and Dom smiled. “Aye, well, I could make a few more kilts before then, that’s plenty of time. And I won’t even ask what’s happened to March.”

Dom grinned. “Mad as a hare.”

A groan. “Well, tell me about this, then - who are the kilts for? Will they be proper wool -” a teasing note - “or your own bastard hybrid? And when shall I measure the recipients?”

“Well, apparently Mr. MacTavish - Una’s father, that is - he wants all the nephews and cousins to have new kilts for the wedding, and he asked about and it turns out you have a decent reputation,” Dom snorted his disbelief and Billy laughed, “so he thought he’d send them all along. The wedding’s an excuse, I think. He just wants to get them all kitted out properly.”

“Aye, well, I’ve no problem with kitting out every MacTavish in Glasgow, to be sure.” Dom heard him click his tongue against his teeth thoughtfully. “You didn’t say when they’d be coming to be measured.”

“Er - whenever, I suppose. I wanted to check with you before setting anything up. Can I just give Mr. MacTavish your address and, well -”

“Certainly. That’ll be grand, they can come by whenever they please; as you know I’m here mostly. Just tell them to come before...” Another thoughtful tongue click, and Boyd named a date. “That way I’ll have time to get all the fabric ordered and so on.”

“All right. Thanks, uh, Billy.”

“You’re more than welcome. In fact,” Billy sounded like he was smiling broadly, “thank _you_. I can’t say I’ll mind the money or the business, so it’s a good turn you’ve done me.”

Dom fidgeted in his chair. “Well, good. Then. So... goodbye?”

“Goodbye, and thank you again.”

~*~


	2. Chapter 2

The door jingled and Dom stuffed his umbrella into the bin with a curse and a sneeze. “You know, you’re a wretched advertisement for your own services,” he said to Billy Boyd’s surprised face.

Boyd smiled, mouth bristling with small silver pins, and spat them into his palm. “Why would you say such a thing?” he asked. “And how are you this fine gentle day?”

“You’re never wearing a kilt,” Dom replied. He stomped over to the squashy armchairs and threw himself into one, regarding the other man, who smiled at him and turned back to pinning cloth around a dummy’s waist. “You really should, you know.”

“I wear them when I go out,” Boyd said, kneeling. “But since I wear them as God intended, with nothing but my skin underneath, I find that crawling around people to measure them and so on is less embarrassing if I’m wearing trousers.”

Dom sneezed again. “Shame,” he said, then lapsed into silence.

The tailor continued pinning for a while, the shop dim and quiet. “Is that a shame because it means I lose out on so many opportunities for advertising, or did you just want to get a look at my knees?” he said eventually, his back to Dom, voice smiling.

“Both, really,” Dom said. He sneezed again. “Fuck.” But when Boyd turned around he already had a handkerchief to his nose. “I washed it,” he mumbled, then blew his nose.

“You haven’t come near any wool yet, so why are you sneezing all over my shop today, hmm?” Boyd climbed to his feet and crossed to the back of the room, where he disappeared for a minute or two. When he came back he had a small tray with two tea cups in his hands.

“I caught a cold,” Dom said. “And did you really just have that tea waiting back there for the first poor sickly sod to stumble through your door?”

Billy laughed. “I had a pot waiting for me; the sickly sod bit of it was an addendum. You reminded me of the tea by sounding so miserable.” He handed a cup to Dom. “I have some honey if you’d like it, but I’m out of milk.”

“Bloody terrible service,” Dom muttered, wiping his nose and tucking the cloth away as he accepted the tea. “Everyone knows the only thing for a cold is milky tea.”

“I do apologise,” Boyd said. They sipped their tea in silence. “I’ve had a slew of MacTavishes in, but your fabric hasn’t arrived yet.”

“I thought as much,” Dom said. “I was just in the neighborhood.” He looked into his tea. It was brown and strong and bitter. “Done with rehearsal, not ready to go home.”

“I may have felt that a few times myself,” Boyd replied. “Nearly closing time for me as well, but I’ve no real wish to leave, even though home’s just upstairs.”

“Married to your work?” Dom smiled.

Boyd rolled his eyes. “Hardly. Not married to anyone or anything.” He smiled back at Dom. “Just - y’know. No plans for the evening, don’t really fancy anything on the telly tonight.”

“I do know.” Dom smiled back. He sipped his tea and then dug in his back pocket. “I forgot, I have something to take -” He pulled out a flat of pills and popped one from its packet. “Bottoms up,” he said, swallowing it with a gulp of tea. “Now I’ll go from being red-nosed and snotty to dry-mouthed and sleepy.”

“Lovely,” Boyd said. “Are you hungry? I was thinking of popping round the pub for a sandwich.”

“They’d probably have milky tea,” Dom said.

“Or whisky,” Boyd replied, grinning, “which is a sight better for a cold than tea.”

“You’ve sold me,” Dom said, pushing himself up out of the chair. “Lay on, MacDuff.”

“Try Billy,” the tailor said.

“Lay on, Billy.” Dom crossed to the door and pulled his umbrella from the bin. He pointed it at Billy like a sword. “No, that’s bloody awful. I’m afraid you’ll have to change your name to MacDuff.”

~*~*~*~

“I’m drunk, MacDuff,” Dom said three hours later. He leaned against Billy’s shoulder and spoke into his ear. His small, cunning, delicate ear. “Why’d you make me drink that whisky?”

“You haven’t sneezed in at least an hour,” Billy replied, turning his head so their noses bumped. He looked at Dom, both of them slightly cross-eyed from proximity. “And I didn’t make you drink anything. And stop calling me MacDuff.”

“Boyd. I’m drunk, Boyd.”

“What’s your last name, again?”

“Monaghan.” Dom pronounced it carefully, sitting up and back, spine straight, shoulders back, chin high. “Dominic Monaghan, at your service.”

“Star of stage and, and screen,” Billy said. “Ooh, look.” He pointed at the bar directly in front of himself. “Two more drinks. C’mon.”

“No, you have mine.” Dom waved one hand expansively. “You’re not as drunk as me.” He leaned one elbow on the counter and put his cheek carefully into his palm to watch Billy. “Not drunk enough.”

“Drunk enough for what?” Billy asked, and his face was pixie-ish, it was, but Dom suddenly remembered that pixies were not always nice. They could be cruel, and the light caught Billy’s eyes a certain way and they glittered. “Drunk enough for what, Monaghan?” Billy smiled and Dom blinked, for he looked harmless again, a small man with thinning hair and a sweet mouth.

“Don’t call me Monaghan,” Dom said, watching Billy drain the first glass. His adam’s apple bobbed, and his chin tilted back right before he put the glass firmly down and licked his pink lips.

“Don’t call me Boyd.” Billy picked up Dom’s whisky and regarded it thoughtfully. “And don’t call me MacDuff, either,” he added, just as Dom opened his mouth.

“But then what should I call you?”

“Billy. Call me Billy,” Billy said. He looked at the glass and then at Dom. “If I drink this, I’ll be as drunk as you. How drunk is that?”

“Almost drunk enough,” Dom slurred. His eyes were sagging shut.

“Almost drunk enough for what?” Billy asked, and it sounded like an echo. He’d said it before, hadn’t he?

The alcohol buzzed in Dom’s veins and he knew he was a little more trollied than he’d meant to be, than he usually would be on this much whisky; he suddenly remembered the cold medicine. “Aha,” he said.

“Aha what? And what will I be drunk enough for?” Billy was eying him, and Dom didn’t like that look. Or maybe he liked it too much. “Dominic Monaghan, star of stage and screen, answer my question.”

“Drunk enough to do something foolish,” Dom murmured, sitting up again. “Drink it, go on.”

“You’re going to end by sleeping on my sofa, aren’t you?” Billy asked. It sounded like a rhetorical question, but Dom nodded anyway. Billy took a long swallow of the whisky and Dom watched again, though this time it was he who licked his lips, pulling his tongue hastily back into his mouth when Billy finished and looked at him again. “What would the lovely Una say?”

“She’d say, _I know you’re an actor, but must you fulfill every cliché in the dramatic lexicon?_” Dom parroted in a breathy upper-class Scottish accent. “That’s what she’d say.”

“That’s fine,” Billy said, face crinkling in a laugh. “Can y’do my voice as well?”

“_What do ye mean, y’can’t wear wool? A real man’d take the rash on his knackers and keep shut aboot et_.” Dom smiled sweetly.

Billy giggled. “You’re mad.” Another swallow of the tea-coloured liquid.

“Almost drunk enough,” Dom corrected him.

“C’mon.” Billy finished the second whisky and put a crumpled wad of bills on the bar. “Let’s go, while I can still walk.”

Billy’s shop and flat were a block away, more or less. “What are the other clichés in the dramatic lexicon?” Billy asked, holding Dom’s arm tightly as they lurched around the corner. Standing and walking, as they so often did, had revealed the true amount of alcohol circulating through their veins.

“Well, there’s being undependable - never on time, usually dressed wrong for whatever occasion it is, bringing the wrong present, bringing _no_ present. Shite like that. Oops.” Dom swung to starboard and crashed into Billy, who crashed into the wall, which luckily did not crash. “Sorry.”

“M’okay. Very tough, we Scots. What else? Go on. I want to hear all about your actorly transgressions.”

“Oh, well.” Dom righted himself a bit and they continued. “I’m just an idiot in general, you know. And I don’t _talk_ to her - despite the fact that, as you can attest, I never shut my mouth.” He grinned, and Billy snorted. “I spend too much time at the theatre, and I won’t move in with her even though no one would care, since she’s a modern girl and we’re engaged _anyway_.”

“Mm-hmm.” Billy’s body had been warm and wiry, and Dom felt the quite powerful urge to press him against the wall again and kiss him, slide his tongue between those pink lips, grind his hips against Billy’s and see what happened. “Those are small sins, though, Dom.”

“Mmm, sins.” They walked. “Well, I’m also a bit unreliable on the sexual side of things, if you must know,” Dom blurted. “I’ve a habit of kissing people I shouldn’t kiss. Birds at the theatre, or blokes, just about anywhere.” He tried it - veered sideways again - but Billy was still moving or maybe evading, and Dom ended up bashing into the wall. “Ow, mother_fucker_,” he whined, pulling back. Billy was ahead of him now, shoulders shaking as he stopped by his door. “Don’t laugh at me. Insensitive Scottish prick.”

“Clumsy English oaf,” Billy said, yanking his keys from the lock and beckoning Dom to follow him up the steps. “C’mon, c’mon. I’ll bet you play the comic relief in all your shows.”

“Oi, that hurts,” Dom said. “I’m a respected dramatic actor, I’ve great, ah, ah, range, I’ll have you know. Yeah.” He ran into Billy’s back at the top of the steps, where he’d stopped. “Oof. Mmm.” He hooked his arms around Billy’s waist and nuzzled the back of his neck. “You smell good.”

Billy sighed and finished unlocking his door. “Dom. Dominic. C’mon, come in and sleep on my sofa.” He stepped forward into the dark flat, dragging Dom with him.

“Mkay,” Dom mumbled into Billy’s hair. “Bed would be better, though.”

“Sofa,” Billy said, and Dom thought he was smiling. Billy unhooked Dom’s arms from around his waist and turned to face him. Yes. Smiling. “You can sleep on my sofa.”

“All right,” Dom said, defeated. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Billy towed him to the item in question and left him standing beside it. He came back with a pillow and a blanket. “Here you are. Sleep well.”

“Can I at least have a good-night kiss?” Dom swayed and smiled winningly at Billy.

Billy sighed again. “Fine.” He leaned forward to kiss Dom’s cheek.

Dom turned his head and kissed Billy’s lips; lifted his hands to rest on Billy’s arms and pulled him a fraction closer. Billy’s lips were soft and willing, parting to Dom’s. His breath tasted of whisky and something else, just Billy, and Dom leaned forward, into him.

Billy broke the kiss and stepped back, still smiling. “Good-night, Dominic Monaghan, star of stage and screen,” he said, and disappeared into his bedroom. The door closed with a rather final-sounding _click._

~*~


	3. Chapter 3

Dom woke up to the sound of the front door closing; he opened his eyes to see Billy standing in the entry, a newspaper in one hand, a carrier bag in the other. Dom’s nose felt almost clear, but when he sat up, he began coughing loudly. “Ah fuck,” he managed, sitting up, eyes watering. His voice sounded gravelly in his own head. “Ahh, fuck,” he repeated.

“Are you all right?” Billy was crouching by the sofa.

“Fine, fine,” Dom waved him back. “I guess it’s moved into my chest.” He coughed again, briefly, and made a face. “I feel better, I just sound worse.”

“I have milk,” Billy said, holding up the bag with a smile.

“Cures all my ills,” Dom replied. “God, I sound like James Earl Jones,” he moaned. “They’ll love this at rehearsal.” He stood and grabbed his head. “Ouch. How much fucking whisky did I have?”

“A bit,” Billy said, standing. “What time do you have to be at the theatre?”

Dom looked at his bare wrist, then Billy. “I don’t know - what time is it now?”

“Half-nine,” Billy replied, and Dom relaxed.

“I’m safe then. I’ll get out of your way.” Dom looked around for his shoes - he vaguely recalled toeing them off before going to sleep fully clothed.

“There’s no hurry,” Billy replied. “I’ve got criossants as well,’f you want them. And I’ve no appointments until ten-thirty.”

Dom wanted to say _no_ and go home, shower (maybe wank in the shower), change clothes, look at his script. Call Una, he supposed, though he didn’t really want to. But there was Billy, standing there looking perfectly edible, jeans and anorak and plain brown shoes, hair damp and mussed, cheeks and nose pink with cold. _I’m an arse,_ Dom thought, and shrugged, smiling. “All right,” he said. “Just let me use your phone.”

Penance would be calling Una before having croissants and tea with Billy.

~*~*~*~

“Go home.”

Dom rolled his eyes. “I’m fine. I feel better today than I did yesterday, and I rehearsed.”

The look Alice gave him was not particularly friendly. “And we’ve three more down today sneezing just like you, so if you please, get your contagious arse out of my theatre, and come back tomorrow. And sounding less like a bass in the Russian National Choir, thank you very much.”

“No, thank _you_,” Dom said, bowing ironically. “I’ll just take myself and my Darth Vader-esque voice and go.”

“Say hullo to Una for me,” Alice said, and Dom made a noise that was less acquiescence than avoidance.

~*~*~*~

“My god,” Billy said. “Were the croissants that good?” He was smiling though, and Dom’s twinge of nerves at coming by again so soon faded in the face of that cheerful smile. Other bits twitched at Billy’s fine green gaze over the rims of small, round-rimmed glasses.

“Kicked out of the theatre,” Dom said dramatically, jamming his umbrella into the bin and crossing to swoon into one of the armchairs. “Three more people down with the plague, apparently.” He coughed, making a face and waving at Billy’s concerned expression with the hand not over his mouth. “I’m fine, it just sounds bad.”

“Plague, eh? And you’ve come bringing it to Scotland, have you?” Billy settled himself into his straight-backed chair again and peered at the bobbin of his sewing machine. “Just like the bloody English.”

“As if,” Dom scoffed. “It’s Scotland gave this to _me_, I’ll have you know. Bloody never-ending rain.” He watched as Billy pushed the glasses up his nose and began running the length of tartan material under his needle, one foot moving on the pedal. “Can you talk while you do that?”

“I can talk, sing, tell four jokes and smoke a cigarette while I do this,” Billy said, eyes on his work and lips still curved upward. The sewing machine hummed, hypnotic, beneath his voice.

“Do you smoke, then?” Dom asked, surprised.

“Nay,” Billy said. “And never fear, that wasn’t one of the jokes, either. Just an easy turn of phrase.” Billy pushed the cloth through smoothly, with never a pause.

Dom hunched over, elbows on his knees. “Silver-tongued Scots,” he said lightly. “I thought you said your kilts were all hand-sewn.”

“And what do you think this is?” Billy asked, glancing up over his glasses for an instant. “There’re plenty of sections that are hand-stitched, but with all the pleats and a fine machine like this one, there’s no need to waste overmuch time by stabbing myself in the thumb with a needle.”

“And do you spend much time bleeding on your fabrics?” Dom asked, falling unconsciously into Billy’s speech patterns, enjoying himself immensely.

“Aye, where do you think the red will come from for your fine MacTavish tartan?”

Billy’s work table was a spot of clear light in the warm, dark cavern of the room. Dom slumped back into the chair, at his ease, and coughed again, this time into his (Billy’s) handkerchief. “I hope and pray that wasn’t one of your four jokes, either,” Dom rasped when he could, smiling. He knew he looked - sounded - ridiculous, but he couldn’t be arsed to care.

“It wasn’t,” Billy said, the hum of his machine beginning again. “Go and fetch us tea, and I’ll tell you one of them.” He must’ve stopped it and looked up while Dom was coughing. “I brought the milk down, it’s in the wee fridge in the back room. Thought guests might want it.”

“Make it a good joke,” Dom said hoarsely, rising, smiling.

“Never you worry, I will; and you make my tea without your milk, aye?” The light caught in his hair, turning it to ginger, and glinted from the flashing needle and the silver frames of his glasses.

~*~*~*~

“So who’s Billy, then?” Una’s voice was cool over the phone. “Someone new at the theatre?”

Dom changed the phone from his left ear to his right and opened the fridge. “Hmm?” Nothing appetising, and he wished he’d stopped at the kebab place for a wrap before he came up.

“Billy. You said you’d slept on the sofa at Billy’s flat.”

“Oh. No, no, not the theatre,” Dom heard his own voice warming, tamped it down a bit. “He’s the tailor, the kilt maker. He’s making my kilt for the wedding.”

“Is he? What shop does he work in?”

“Erm, his own, actually. I mean, it’s just a little shop, Boyd’s Tartans. It’s not far from the theatre.” Dom closed the fridge and opened the cupboard. “Very, uh, exclusive. Only by order, all that shite. Your father’s sending all the cousins over to be fitted for the wedding, as well.”

“So you thought it would be fun to... have a pyjama party with him?”

“I just stopped by to, ah, ask if the fabric had come in for my kilt. We started talking, it was almost closing, we went to a pub and had a beer... He’s funny. You’d like him.”

Dom silently and in slow motion slammed his head into the work top, bending almost double.

“I’ll give it a miss, thanks.” A pause, and Dom straightened and inhaled silently. “Dom, we need to talk. Can I come over?”

“I - well -” A fit of coughing seized him, and when he brought the phone back to his mouth it was easy enough to say _no._ “Well, you can hear me. I don’t want to make you ill.”

Another pause, and Dom wasn’t sure, but did she sound relieved? “I’ve no real want for it, either. Is there anything I can get for you?”

“No.” Dom stopped to clear his throat. “I’ve got medicine and things. I really don’t feel all that awful, I just sound wretched.”

“You do at that.” She laughed a little and Dom did, too. “Well then, it can wait. I suppose.”

“Going to break my heart?” Dom asked lightly.

She laughed again, after a beat. “I doubt it,” she said. “Take care of yourself, Dom.”

“I will. Stay dry. I’ll come over in a couple of days, yeah?”

“That would be good. Oh. Call first, I’ve - been in and out.”

“All right. Bye.”

“G’bye.”

~*~*~*~

“I’ve noticed I only try to snog you when I’m trollied.” Dom swung one leg back and forth. “Wanna go down the pub?”

Billy smiled without looking up from his work. “What would the lovely Una say?” It had become a sort of refrain for him, and Dom stifled his irritation.

“She’d say I’m a scoundrel and a wretch and a bloody great fool,” Dom replied, not bothering to put on her accent. “What tartan is that?”

“Wemyss Ancient,” Billy said. “And almost finished.” He sewed in silence for a bit, and Dom pretended to study his script. When Billy’s voice came again, it was quiet, and kind. “Have you and Una set a date for certain yet?” He glanced up and then down again. “I want to make sure you’ve proper dress. I could move the MacTavish kilts up the queue, I mean, if you needed me to...”

“What you meant to ask,” Dom said, feeling a small, false smile settle like a mask upon his face, “is not when, but _why_ am I getting married at all.”

Billy’s eyes stayed upon him for a longer moment this time, still green through the clear glass of his spectacles. “It had occurred to me,” he said; he looked down again, turning the material in his hands and setting his needle flashing on another seam. “But it’s none of my business.”

“I’ll definitely need to be drunk for that one,” Dom said lightly. He slapped his script down on the coffee table. “I think I’ve everyone else’s lines memorised, along with mine,” he said. “Am I driving you mad, hanging about your shop like an orphan without a home?”

Billy’s needle stopped for an instant; it restarted with his small smile. “Of course not,” he said. “Orphans are put to work in this shop, anyway. And you’re doing no work, if you hadn’t noticed.”

“I _was_,” Dom said mulishly. He propped his boot on the script pointedly. “It’s nearly six. Do you want to come down the pub, or shall I go and drink alone? I could always tell my sad, sad tale of woe to some innocent bystander.” He grinned.

Billy rolled his eyes in mock horror. “God forbid you should inflict your stories on anyone but me.” He tied his thread and bit it off near the cloth, grinning at Dom’s wince. “Let me take all this upstairs - client’s picking it up on Monday, and I’ve a few more seams to tighten.”

Dom nodded, and carried Billy’s little sewing box up to help, looking at Billy’s neat backside as they climbed the steps, cursing himself for a fool.

Billy’s flat was tidy as always, and Dom stood looking about as Billy laid the almost-finished kilt over an ironing board in the corner.

“My play opens in five days,” Dom said, more to hear himself speak than for any other reason.

“I know, I’ve bought a ticket for the third weekend.” Billy walked into his bedroom, the light flicking on, falling into the lounge from the door, which Billy’d left ajar.

“Bill, did you?” Dom was astonished - at Billy’s words, at the happy warmth he felt on his cheeks and neck.

“Aye, I did.” Billy’s voice floated to him. “Hold on, I want to change my clothes.” Dom stifled the urge to peek into the bedroom, crossing to the window instead. “I thought the third weekend would be best,” Billy went on. “You’d all be over the starting flubs, but not bored with it yet.”

“I’d have got you a comp ticket,” Dom called. The street below was dark, streetlamps gleaming on wet pavement and lighting the umbrellas of hurrying pedestrians in a dull, sulfurous glow. “S’raining,” Dom said, almost to himself.

Billy’s close reply startled him: “Well, I suppose my knees can stand a few drops.”

Dom turned and found Billy closer than he’d expected, right beside him and peering out the window. He’d traded his trousers and button-down shirt for a heavy cable-knit sweater and a green and blue kilt. Dom gaped for a second, then closed his mouth with a snap. “That’s a nice kilt,” he said.

“Thank you.” Billy said it cheerfully, but Dom supposed his intentions were clear enough, for Billy turned abruptly to look out the window again, his smile pasted on suddenly. “Not really pissing down yet,” he said, then stilled at Dom’s hand on his waist.

“I’m not drunk at the moment,” Dom said quietly. Billy’s warmth radiated through the sweater, the curve of his side fitting perfectly into Dom’s palm, beneath his fingers; Dom watched as his profile - cheek, ear, throat - flushed rose-pink.

“You’re still -” Billy turned his head slightly, away. “Still engaged, though.” He wasn’t smiling. His lips were parted, eyes downturned.

Dom sighed. “I... you’re right.” He took his hand from Billy’s hip, turning toward the door. “I’m sorry. D’you -” he rubbed his hand through his hair. “D’you still want to go down the pub?”

“’Course I do.” Billy’s voice was gentle. “I think we both need a drink.” He looked at Dom, lips quirked into a real smile again.

“I can tell you about Una,” Dom said. He wasn’t sure if he was joking or not.

“And I can give you bad advice.” Billy steered Dom toward the door. “And I’ve no need to worry that you’ll kiss me - I’m practically cased in wool.”

Dom stepped onto the landing, grinning. “So I won’t be kissing your arse, anyway,” he said.

Billy smacked the back of his head as they started down the stairs. “You are a scoundrel,” he said. But he was laughing a bit.

~*~*~*~

“Una.” Dom leaned forward until his chin rested on the bar. “Una Una Una.”

“How drunk are you, my lad?” Billy’s fingers scraped gently across his scalp, ruffling his hair, and Dom shivered and sat up.

“Drunk. Pretty drunk.”

“Drunk enough to do something foolish?”

Dom turned his head, half-enjoying the dizzying swoop as his vision caught up with the movement. Billy didn’t _look_ as if he was inviting Dom back to his flat for a quick shag. “How foolish?” he asked.

“Una.” Billy blinked at him. His hair was sticking out, just one tuft, behind his right ear, and Dom looked it for a while.

Billy, he noticed when he looked at his face again, was grinning. “What?” Dom said.

Billy started giggling. “Pretty drunk, all right,” he wheezed. “You -” He began laughing again.

“Oi, shut up,” Dom muttered, but Billy looked so perfectly scrumptious that he smiled. “What’re you laughing at, MacDuff?” He reached out with his right hand and patted Billy’s errant tuft of hair down, fingertips curving down and around Billy’s ear, tucking his hair into place. This time, when Dom looked at Billy’s face, he noticed something different.

Billy was perfectly still, face flushed, no longer smiling. He was looking at Dom intently, almost solemnly, and Dom couldn’t help himself; he leaned forward, just a tad, eyes now on Billy’s mouth. Dom licked his lips, pausing.

It seemed to snap Billy awake; he sat back, so Dom’s hand fell from his ear (cheek, neck) and he smiled at Dom - false and bright, eyes flicking away. “You, I was laughing at you,” he said, quieter, still smiling. “You said _Una Una Una_, just now, so I thought you wanted to talk about her, but then you went off,” his smile was more relaxed, more _real_, and Dom began smiling, too, belly twisting, “you went off into some fugue hairdresser state.” Billy snickered again and Dom rolled his eyes.

“You looked like an idiot, I’ll have you know. I saved you from a fate worse than death, fixing your hair.” Dom turned to the bar and lifted his beer, swallowing, trying to think of something other than Billy’s damp, parted lips, and the intensity his eyes had held, just for a moment, and his bare knees, flush against the bar, and the bare thighs above those knees, leading up to... well. Good things, Dom couldn’t help but imagine (had imagined a few times), and he wrenched his thoughts from that as best he could. “So I was going to tell you about Una, was I?” Another drink, and he turned back to Billy. “Think I’m drunk enough?”

“Well.” Billy looked slightly wicked. “I think you may have just tried to snog me, so, yeah. Drunk enough.”

“Was that me?” Dom batted his lashes. “Cos I thought it was more you, to be honest.” Before Billy’s smile could settle into falsity again, Dom went on. “Una, then. Well... Una.” He was drunk, could feel it in his fingers and toes, in the reckless desire to say too much. “She, she’s a nice girl. Spoilt, though.”

“She could hardly help it,” Billy said.

“Yeah. Yeah, I know. And she is a nice girl - she works, did I tell you she works with kids? Little kids love her.” Dom sipped his drink.

“Explains you, then,” Billy said. He touched Dom’s arm lightly. “M’just kidding. Go on.”

“No, it probably does. She liked, uh. Liked how immature I can be. Am. She thought I was funny, liked it when I did wild things.” Dom chewed a little at his lower lip. Billy looked at him; Dom looked at Billy’s reflection in the mirror behind the bar. “But I think that’s worn off. I dunno if she wants to marry me anymore - dunno if she wants to have a hyperactive child for a husband. Not really worth pissing off her family.” He looked down and turned his tumbler in his hands.

“What about you?” Billy had his elbow on the bar, chin propped in the cup of his palm.

Dom shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. I’m, I’m just me, whether I’m married to her or not.”

“That’s shite,” Billy said sharply, and Dom looked at him, startled. “If you marry someone you have to change, at least a bit.”

“Were you ever married?” Dom meant it honestly, and wondered if that came through the treacle of alcohol, through the gravity of his attraction to the small man beside him.

Billy’s cheeks flushed again. “No. Almost... almost. I lived with a girl for two years, though, before I. Before I realised it was a mistake.” He lifted his drink and swallowed the last of it smoothly.

“Before you realised you liked blokes?” Dom turned his head and stared at Billy.

Billy wiped his mouth. “No.” His knee jiggled up and down for a moment. “No, I knew it the whole time. Stupid. I was stupid, and cruel.” His eyes dropped.

“Well, I like blokes and women,” Dom said. “So it’s not that, for me.”

“Yeah.” Billy rubbed his free hand over his face. “I know. Sorry.”

“Do you - you wanna get out of here?”

Billy nodded, not looking at him, and fumbled with the buckle of his sporran, tossing pound notes onto the bar. “Yeah. I think I’m too drunk, m’self.”

“S’okay.” Dom put his money beside Billy’s, waving to the bartender. “I’ll tuck you in, this time.”

Billy muttered something that sounded a lot like _Bad idea_ and Dom hid his smile and the sudden urge to sway toward Billy.

Billy walked silently beside Dom, head down against the soft rain. When they arrived at his door, he dropped the keys and Dom picked them up, shoving Billy gently aside to unlock the door, concentrating. “There we are,” he said, and started up the stairs. Billy wasn’t behind him. Dom turned, three steps up, and looked down.

Billy was blinking owlishly up at him, still in the entry, hands lax by his sides, only his fingertips showing in the heavy folds of the jumper. “You shouldn’t come up tonight,” he said.

“Why not?” Dom said. “I promise I’ll be good.” He gave Billy his most charming smile, half-aware that it probably looked more like a drunken leer than anything else. “Really I will, c’mon, Bill.”

Billy looked at him for a long moment and finally sighed. “Fine.” He stumped up the steps, one hand out and fingers trailing along the grimy paint on the wall. “You have to - you have to be good,” he said as he passed Dom. He waited at the landing and Dom realised he still had the keys in his hand.

“I will,” Dom said again, his smile fading.

Inside the flat, Billy wandered over to touch the almost-completed Wemyss kilt as Dom locked the door. “Going to sleep on the sofa again?” Billy said, rambling along the perimeter of the room. Dom felt uncomfortable, suddenly - maybe he really shouldn’t stay, if Billy didn’t want him to - “You can, y’know. Ignore me, just a drunken pillock, mumbling and being morose.”

“So just another Friday night in Glasgow, is what you’re saying,” Dom said, leaning back against the door and smiling at Billy, who nodded as if to himself.

“Just another Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday night in Glasgow,” Billy said. He stood looking down at the sofa. “I’ve wanked on that sofa,” he said. “Hope you don’t mind.”

“Hope you cleaned up,” Dom said, grinning; he suppressed the sudden urge to turn and flee, and instead stayed where he was and folded his hands over his crotch. Casually.

“I did. But it’s my flat, isn’t it? I c’n wank wherever I want.” Billy sat down - flopped down - and looked at Dom, eyes dark.

“True,” Dom said. “I’ve wanked on my sofa, too, I suppose.”

“Can’t do that when you’re married to a girl,” Billy said suddenly. His booted feet were flat on the floor, heavy and thick; his knees weren’t exactly splayed, but they were definitely set apart. The kilt dipped down between his thighs, concealing anything improper, but Dom’s throat was dry, suddenly. Billy was all - well. Laid out, practically, arms outstretched along the back of the settee, and legs like that, and. Sprawled, sort of.

“Um. Maybe not,” Dom conceded. “When she’s home, anyway.” He cleared his throat.

“Bad form,” Billy said, nodding. He stared at Dom.

“I’ve just -” Dom shrugged, needing to say something, to break the thick silence. “I guess I’m used to the idea, now, of marrying her. And besides, I don’t want - I don’t want to disappoint her. She likes all the wedding planning and, well, she still goes to see the fucking cake maker twice a week, it seems like, and I just -” He stopped, and realised he’d straightened, was no longer leaning against the door. He took four steps closer to Billy, and watched his head tilt back to keep Dom’s gaze. “The wedding, it’s not just about me, you know?”

Billy nodded his head.

Dom looked away, at the room’s smeary reflection in the dark windows. “I’m going to make some tea,” he said.

“All right.” Billy’s voice was quiet. Dom’s footsteps sounded loud to him on the uncarpeted floor; Billy spoke over them. “Did you know that last year my shop was flooded?”

Dom called back his answer. “Really? How’d that happen? I don’t remember anything about the Clyde, or, well, anything.” He knew where everything was, and forced his hands to work, forced them to stop trembling. _Too much to drink, too much to drink_, he chanted to himself. The kettle rattled against the tap as he filled it.

“A pipe burst,” Billy said. “Flooded everything, ruined the floors, the cupboards, everything. Insurance covered a lot of the damage, but I had to borrow a lot, too. And I couldn’t work much while it was being repaired. Nearly went out of business. Rent here’s so fecking mad anyway.”

Dom set the kettle on the hob with an involuntary bang and kept his voice even. “I bet. That’s awful.” He scrubbed his hands over his face. Some little part of his brain was sobering up, and some little part of his chest was beginning to ache. He went back into the lounge.

Billy hadn’t moved. “Yeah, I nearly closed, used up all my savings and more besides. It’s been pretty much month-to-month since then.”

Dom nodded. “I know how that is,” he said.

“Yeah.” Billy was looking down at his own lap. “Did you know that the MacTavish family has ordered fourteen kilts from me?”

Dom swallowed, and perched awkwardly on the arm of the sofa. “I’m - I’m glad, Bill.”

“Yeah.” Billy sighed. “I should go to bed.”

“Y’okay? You don’t want any tea?”

Billy shook his head and heaved himself up. He stood where he was for a minute, eyes closed, face scrunched up a little, and then opened his eyes, swaying slightly. “No. I shouldn’t -” He stopped and took two steps, towards Dom - _towards his bedroom, you prat_, Dom said to himself. But Billy was looking down at him, face unreadable, and Dom got that feeling again, that little flare of nerves Billy sometimes sparked when his face went still, when his eyes stopped sparkling and just looked like, like flat green stones, and _fuck, I am so drunk,_ Dom thought, but Billy spoke again. “I shouldn’t have told you that. I wish I didn’t need the money so much.” Small fingers trailed over Dom’s face - temple to cheekbone to jaw - and Billy blinked and shook his head, turning away. “Stay as long as you want,” he said, and Dom didn’t reply. Just watched as Billy’s bedroom door closed behind him, and startled a few moments later, when the kettle whistled from the kitchen.

~*~


	4. Chapter 4

All Dom could see of Billy was his hair, sticking up in tufts from beneath the duvet. He set a glass of water and the aspirin bottle on the bedside table and hesitated. “Bill,” he whispered finally, reaching to touch the lump that must be his friend’s shoulder. “Billy.”

“Mmph.” An upheaval, accompanied by groaning, and Billy’s sleep-creased face was suddenly visible. He squinted at Dom. “Am I alive, then?” His voice sounded like sandpaper and gravel, and Dom grinned too brightly, relief washing him.

“Yeah, just barely,” he murmured, sitting on the edge of the bed. “I have to go, got final fittings at the theatre in an hour, and I’m supposed to do something -” he waved one hand vaguely - “with Una later. I brought you some stuff.” He pointed to the water and medicine.

“You’re a prince,” Billy mumbled, sitting up slowly, wincing. “How much did I drink last night?”

“Only a couple,” Dom said, “you’re such a fucking lightweight -”

“Lies. Piss off.” Billy was smiling, though his eyes were still squinched up. “Oh, god.” He took a drink of water and settled back against his headboard. “All right, so I’ll see you later? Oh, no. Maybe next week.”

Dom looked steadily at his hands. “It may be a while before I can come over. With the show starting and all, I mean, I. Things might be crazy for a while.”

Billy didn’t reply, but Dom didn’t look back up. After a while Dom sighed.

“Dom, I’m sorry for what I said last night.”

“You should be. Telling me I won’t be able to wank on my settee when I’m married. Broke my heart.” Dom peered up, through his lashes, and saw that Billy looked pained. “Ah, shite. Shut it, MacDuff.”

“I just.” Billy ran his hands over his face and then dropped them. “I’ve no business judging what’s between you and Una.” He looked tired, faint lines visible around his eyes.

“You didn’t judge. You don’t,” Dom said. “S’one reason I like you, Bill. You’re remarkably nonjudgmental.” He heard himself, grimaced. “I sound like such a prat. But I mean it, anyway.”

“Do you so?” Billy’s eyes were closed, head tilted back against the wooden headboard. “That’s good, then, I hope.”

“S’brilliant.” Dom picked at the duvet for a moment, then grabbed Billy’s hand and rubbed it briskly between his own two. “Just shut up and sleep in and get over your hangover.”

Billy was smiling again, and he let Dom turn his palm over and examine the lines there. “What time is it?”

“Early, half-eight,” Dom said. “Look, you’re going to die at the age of ninety-seven, eaten by feral sheep.”

Billy laughed, then groaned. “Ach, that hurt my head. Why sheep?” He drew his hand away and looked at his palm.

“Revenge,” Dom said, standing, hands on his hips. Billy’s hand had been small and warm, and Dom wanted to hold it again, an odd pull. He smiled, instead, and walked backward on his heels, toward the bedroom door. “All those kilts, Boyd. The sheep are getting cold.”

He turned and left, hearing Billy’s quiet laugh behind him.

~*~*~*~

“I think Una’s having an affair.” Dom fumbled four little pretzel sticks from the bowl on the bar and began building a pretzel teepee, balancing them against one another.

“Is it the cake-maker?” Billy said solemnly. He put his drink down hard enough to shiver the bar, cackling when Dom’s construction project suffered a collapse. Dom shot him an offended glare.

“Wanker.” He rebuilt the teepee, began adding more pretzel sticks to it. “Pastry chefs,” he said darkly. “Can’t trust’em.”

“French,” Billy added, nodding.

Dom’s head jerked up. “Exactly!” he exclaimed, slapping his palm onto the bar. The teepee collapsed again. “Bugger!”

“Hey, how’s the play going?” Billy drew circles in the moisture his glass had left on the bar. “Have you sold my seat out from under me yet?”

“It was good this week,” Dom said. “The reviews helped, o’course.” He ate two pretzel sticks; used two more to do a bad Charlie Chaplin impression; pretended not to be watching Billy from the corner of his eye. “Settled in a bit. Sorry ’bout the seat, though,” he added with sugary insincerity. “They offered me a better deal.”

“You betrayed your kilt maker?” Billy asked sadly. “I’m wounded. I suppose I’ll have to see what’s on at the Royal this weekend.”

Dom threw one of the pretzels at him, smiling. “Bugger off.” Billy looked fetching, all faux innocence and batted lashes. “Your seat’s safe, although we are sold out through the fourth week. They think the last two weeks will sell, as well.”

“I’m glad,” Billy said.

“Um.” Dom rubbed his nose thoughtfully. “Una will be there the same night as you,” he said. “Some friend or another is in town, she’s bringing her to see me, even though Una came opening weekend.” He felt a faint, embarrassed smirk flicker across his face, and stifled it mercilessly. “They’re not seated anywhere near you, so you don’t have to meet her,” he added. “It’s just, I was going to ask if you’d like to come backstage, after, and she’ll probably come back, too.”

Billy looked blank, just for an instant, and then normal again. “I’d like to,” he said. “Come backstage, and meet Una, too, if she’s there.” He shrugged, and Dom couldn’t tell whether Billy was sincere. “I’m sure she’s lovely,” and Billy certainly _sounded_ sincere.

Dom nodded, and tried not to wonder whether Billy was being honest or happened to be a really good liar. He took a long drink of his beer and asked Billy if he’d seen a movie that was playing in the cinema down the street.

~*~*~*~

The play went well. Dom saw neither Una nor Billy beforehand; his call time for makeup and costuming was two hours before the theatre doors would open. He couldn’t see anything during the show, with the glare of lights blinding him, the audience nothing more than rustling and silence, laughter and, near the ending, a few muffled sniffs, followed by more laughter. So it wasn’t until afterwards, after the bows (and a second curtain call) that he saw them.

Una found him in the dressing room; she knocked at the door and was ushered in by Peter and Kyle; Dom heard their laughing assurances that everyone was dressed. “Shame,” she said cheerfully, and came in, meeting his eyes in the mirror, smiling immediately. She had her friend by the arm and towed her in as well, a blonde woman who spoke a polite greeting in a quick American accent, smiling at Una and then, more impersonally, at Dom.

“Let’s go out, I’ll show you the green room and the buffet,” Dom said, tossing aside the cloth he’d used to remove his makeup and running one hand through his hair. “I’m famished.”

Una took his arm and smiled again. “You always are, after,” she said. “Have you seen your friend?”

“No,” as they came out Dom examined the half-lit area. “But I told Eric to let him in.” They crossed the backstage slowly, Una and her friend (Carrie? Cara?) chatting with one another, Dom still looking for Billy. “Oh,” he said, “just a moment.”

Billy stood by the stage door quietly, composed, scanning the faces of the crew and the cast wandering about the vaulted room. He looked interested, and alert, and unfairly (Dom thought, trotting toward him) delicious, in a red kilt and black jacket, black shirt and bowtie peeping in the gap, black knee socks and shiny black shoes below.

“Oi, mate, you can’t come in here dressed like that,” Dom said, and Billy’s eyes fastened on him, a smile brightening his face.

“I know, I know,” Billy said, “everything else was at the cleaners. It’s a disgrace.” He leaned forward to give Dom a quick hug and Dom inhaled, smelling familiar aftershave and a faint hint of scotch – the interval, probably. “The play was fantastic!” Billy said, stepping back again, and Dom flushed a little, grinning, and lifted one shoulder. “I really enjoyed it,” Billy added.

“Thanks,” Dom said, uncomfortable, smiling gamely. “I’m glad you came.” He began walking back toward Una and the American girl.

“You were shite, o’ course,” Billy added, and Dom’s smile widened into a grin that felt real on his face. “But the rest was great.” He swatted Dom’s shoulder with the programme as they halted in front of the two women.

“Bill, this is Una MacTavish and, ah, Carrie,” Dom hoped he’d got it right; “ladies, this is Billy Boyd.”

“The infamous kilt maker,” Una said, and Dom ducked his head as she took his arm, wondering if he should feel quite this self-conscious, wondering what Billy saw when he looked at Una. At Una and him, and Dom resisted the bizarre urge to scuff his shoe along the stage floor.

“Ach, Dom’s been telling lies again, has he?” Billy said easily, and Una laughed. “How many times have I told you, Dom, you cannot go round telling everyone in Glasgow these terrible stories about my secret fetish for Patricia Routledge and expect to live.”

Perhaps the evening would be bearable, Dom thought with relief, and guided them all towards the green room and food as his stomach rumbled.

~*~*~*~

“Hello?”

“Dom, I hope you’re not busy...”

“No, it’s fine - Billy?”

“Yes, sorry. Ehm, your fabric came in and I’ve cobbled something together, I wondered if you might come in for a proper fitting.”

“Sure, say the word.”

“Knickers.”

“Oh, that’s a good one.” Dom grinned and rummaged under the papers on his desk for a pen. “Now say a word that tells me when I’m to come in.”

Billy sounded cautious. “Well, I had thought perhaps tomorrow, but if you’ve got other, ehm, obligations, I’d certainly -”

“Tomorrow’s fine,” Dom dropped his voice and looked at Una, reading on the sofa, paying minimal attention to the television, “I’m perishing of boredom. Shall I come in the evening, and then take you out for a drink?”

“Brilliant,” Billy said. “See you then.”

“Bye.”

Dom thumbed the button to turn off the phone and wrote **BILLY, FIVE** on his hand. He tossed the pen down and went back to his place on the sofa. “Who’s winning?” he asked.

“Mm?” Una looked up. “Oh. Arsenal still.”

He swung his leg for a while, watching the game, then began examining his fingernails critically. “Do you have any nail varnish here?” he asked.

“What? No.” Una wasn’t reading; Dom purposely didn’t look at her, keeping his gaze on the telly and trying not to fidget. “Dom.”

“What?”

She sighed, and he looked at her. She looked... constrained. “I think I’ll go back to mine,” was all she said, though.

“Is that all?” Dom asked. He tugged gently at her earlobe, then let his fingers rest on her neck. “Are you all right?”

“Well.” She looked at the book in her lap, face still, dark hair falling forward again, sleek and concealing. “Yes.” She inhaled and looked at him, smiling slightly, and stood. He stood, too, and examined her. “I’m fine, I just have a lot of preparation for tomorrow,” she said. “You’re going out for drink with your friend?” she said.

“Yes - you don’t need me, do you?” Dom pulled at one of his beltloops, then looked back at her.

“No, I’ll be busy with other things,” she said. “I’ll talk to you soon, though.” She kissed his lips and stepped away, moving about the flat, gathering her book and handbag and coat. “Good night, Dom.”

“Bye.” Dom watched the door close behind her and thought that Una MacTavish was a terrible liar, and unhappy as well.

~*~*~*~

Billy did not make Dom feel better. He handed him a kilt and arrayed it expertly around Dom’s hips, buckling and then stepping back to scan his handiwork. “The length is good, but I think the fall is wrong here.” He stepped forward again, hands flat and impersonal on Dom’s hips. “Something... turn around.”

Dom did, feeling ridiculous and a little irritated. “It’s my pants,” he said, “they’re mucking it all up.”

“No doubt,” Billy said, voice dry, “but keep them on, just the same.” He tugged at the hem in the back and Dom tried not to think about how that felt, or about how close Billy’s hands were to his arse. “How does the waist feel?”

“Fine,” Dom said, turning to see him. “I mean. Well.” He shrugged. “Fine, comfortable.”

Billy made a sound in the back of his throat, peering at the kilt. (_Not at my prick, for Chrissakes_, Dom thought.) “Not itchy,” Billy said suddenly.

“Oh.” Dom considered. “No, not at all.” He ran his hands down his own hips, feeling the material flatten and sway below his fingertips. “It feels a little softer than wool, too.”

“Aye, it is,” Billy said, turning away suddenly to his work table. “Ehm.” He bent, and came back with a tape measure. “Almost done.”

Dom let himself be measured, in the kilt and then in his boxers (“I wore these just for you,” he’d said, when Billy laughed at seeing the “Simpsons” catchphrase scrawled across them), and then he pulled his jeans back on. “Still have time for a drink? Or do you have family you’re seeing?”

“I’ve a sister,” Billy said, tidying several bolts of cloth and then turning to his sewing machine, gleaming in its small pool of light. “She’s in Ipswich for Christmas, actually. Gone to meet her boyfriend’s family, poor creature.”

Dom made a sympathetic noise. “Who’re you spending Christmas with, then?”

“Half-day shop hours tomorrow, then I’m closing to get some real work done. Christmas day, dinner at two with my aunt and uncle, so, out to Cumbernauld. Won’t stay long, though, I don’t think.” Billy made a face. “House always smells of cabbage.”

Dom sat on the arm of one of the squashy chairs. “So your parents don’t live in Glasgow?”

“They died when I was young,” Billy said, no trace of unease on his face. “My gran raised Margaret and me, and then she passed away a few years ago.” He glanced up and saw the look on Dom’s face and smiled, a small, self-contained expression. “It’s fine, Dom. Ancient history, you know? And my gran was quite old when she died, eighty-six. We had time to say our goodbyes.”

“I’m sorry, it’s none of my business.” Dom studied his hands.

“Of course it is, if you want it to be,” Billy said. “We’re friends, aye?” He flipped a switch and the lamp over his sewing table went out; the only light left came from streetlamps outside the windows and a faint glow from the kitchen in the back. “Ready for a drink? I could use a spot of Christmas cheer myself.”

“Yeah.” Dom stifled his own sullen mood and, once they’d sheltered from the cold at the pub and acquired two lagers and two sarnies, he answered Billy’s questions about where he would spend the following days readily enough: the train to Manchester tomorrow, to spend Christmas Eve with his family (“mother, father, annoying brother, brilliant sister-in-law and nephew”), then back again Christmas morning for a day with the MacTavishes.

“What about Boxing Day?” Billy asked, pushing his empty plate away.

“Some of the actors from the Pavilion are volunteering at a soup kitchen,” Dom said. “I thought I might do that. What about you?”

“Oh, nothing special. Usually just work a little, sleep a lot. You know.”

Dom nodded and picked at the disemboweled remains of his sandwich.

“You should try putting some in your mouth,” Billy suggested, a smile ghosting around his lips.

“M’not all that hungry,” Dom said. “I think.” He pushed the plate away and propped his elbows on the table, then his chin in his hands. “Did I tell you I think Una’s having an affair?”

“What?” Billy’s small bark of surprised laughter was cut off, and when Dom looked up at him, his face was calm. “I don’t think so. Wait. Maybe. A few weeks ago, right before I came to see the show.” He cocked his head. “Do you really think so?”

Dom spread his fingers out so they covered his face; the tabletop was sticky under his elbows as he nodded. “Maybe. I dunno. She’s got something she’s keeping to herself. And she’s not... happy.” He scrubbed his face and then let his hands drop to the table and looked at Billy. “But it could be wishful thinking, I suppose.”

“What -” Billy straightened in his seat, expression cautious. “What do you mean?”

“Well, maybe I just hope she’s having an affair, because it means that I’m not the thing that’s making her unhappy.” Dom chewed on his lower lip. “You know?” The fairy lights on the wall behind Billy’s head blinked, and Billy looked solemn.

“Yeah, I know.” Billy touched Dom’s hand briefly; looked away. “I just wonder if you ought to be honest with her, though, Dom. It’s not... not right for you to marry her if you’re not in love, if you’re unhappy.”

“It’s not fair to her or me,” Dom said. “I know. Of course I know.” His misery seemed all out of proportion, though, and he couldn’t quite bear to analyse it, not here, not with Billy of all people. “Ah, never mind me. End-of-run blues, probably, happens all the time.”

“What’re you working on next?” Billy asked, and the subject changed easily enough, naturally enough that Dom could hide the tension, hide his sudden confusion. He didn’t try to kiss Billy that night, even for a joke, and though he saw Billy’s gaze fix upon him, dark and calm and speculative, Billy didn’t mention it.

“I should have the kilt finished by late next week,” Billy said, just before they parted ways; Dom hunched his shoulders into his anorak and nodded.

“Call me,” he said.

Billy nodded. “Dom, ’f you want to -” He paused, ducking his head away from the rain, thin but needle-like. “Well, if you find yourself at a loose end, you’re always free to come and see me. Friends, right?”

Dom glanced up, caught Billy’s eye and wondered what the tailor saw in his face. “Thanks, Bill. Right.” He leaned forward before he could stop himself and hugged Billy - a quick clasp, Billy folded into his arms (cold nose against his ear, scratch of his cap against Dom’s temple, warm weight against him) and then pushed away. “Happy Christmas, eh?”

“You too, Dom.”

Dom turned and hurried away, not watching Billy scurry in the other direction, not thinking about Una or Billy or anything but his own warm, dry bed and the oblivion of sleep.

~*~


	5. Chapter 5

“Hello?”

“Bill. S’Dom.”

“Hey, Dom! Happy Christmas. Where are you? I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon.”

“M’sorry, you have company? I can call back later. Tomorrow.”

“No, I’m just home from my aunt and uncle’s house, halfway to pished. ...Are you all right?”

Dom pressed the phone tighter to his ear and looked at the closed door of the study. “I’m okay. Tired, a little pissed, but nothing bad. Bored out of my fucking mind, mostly.”

Billy’s laugh was quiet and light. “Another exciting Christmas among the upper crust, hm?” His voice was clear, crisp. He didn’t sound drunk, but then, Dom thought, he rarely did - a thickening of the Glasgae, but even that came and went.

“Something like that.” Dom took a drink. “How was dinner?”

“Good. We had cabbage, and roast pork that tasted of cabbage, and potatoes that tasted of cabbage, and pudding that tasted -”

Dom snickered. “I had roast goose and new potatoes and fifteen courses and then some kind of chocolatey raspberry mousse thing Una made, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. ...What’re you doing tonight?”

Billy’s shrug was nearly audible. “Dunno. Watching some telly, maybe catch up on the books. Another exciting Christmas among the working classes, I suppose.”

Dom inhaled, and looked at his white knuckles on the glass. “Could I.” The sounds of the party downstairs rose for an instant and then fell again. “No, never mind. I’ll see you later this week.”

“Did you want to come over?” Billy sounded hesitant. “I’d have invited you, only I thought -”

“Thought Una would want me here? Thought I would want me here?” Dom set the glass down and rubbed his hand across his forehead. “I’m bored, honestly.” His voice was determinedly light. “And Una’s sick of me - if I hadn’t done it, my family would have seen to it, you know? We’ve been cooped up together for two solid days, we’re driving each other spare.”

“I don’t want to cause any trouble.” Billy was unexpectedly firm. “Don’t come if it’ll make things bad between you and Una, Dom. If I will.”

“You haven’t,” Dom said. “You won’t. I feel like such an idiot, calling and imposing.”

“No.” Billy was quiet for a moment. “You’re always welcome, Dom. If you need to get away, I’d lo - I wouldn’t mind saying Happy Christmas in person.”

“Thanks, Billy. I’ll... I’ll check with Una and then call a taxi.”

“I’ll be here. If you can’t come, don’t fret yourself.”

“Okay. Bye.”

“Goodbye.”

~*~*~*~

Dom looked at the mannequins in the window of Billy’s shop - not even mannequins, they were dressmaker’s dummies, sporting various kilts. Dom saw a MacTavish kilt on the child-sized dummy and looked away, huddling into the doorway that led upstairs. He pressed the bell for Billy’s flat and took a drink from the bottle in his hand, waiting for Billy to answer.

“Hullo?”

“It’s me. Dom,” Dom added, but the door was already buzzing, and he yanked it open and made his way up the narrow flight. The door on the landing opened and warm light spilled out, trickling down the stairs.

Dom could see Billy against the light, an outline, face unreadable, though his voice was genial enough: “You’ve escaped the clutches of the blue bloods, have you?”

Dom nodded and displayed the bottle. “I even managed to snag some booty,” he said. “Happy Christmas, Bill.”

Billy took the bottle and closed the door behind Dom. “Brought me a half-empty bottle,” he said, locking the door. “Just like a bloody Englishman.”

“It’s half _full_,” Dom said, shrugging out of his coat. “Always pessimistic, just like a bloody Scot.” He shook his head and tossed the jacket over the back of a handy chair. “Have some Christmas cheer.”

Billy peered at him, setting the bottle aside. “Think you’ve had enough for the both of us,” he said. “Did something - did Una say something to you?”

“Doesn’t always have to be about Una, does it?” Dom scrubbed his face with his hands. “Anyway, since when do you come right to the point?”

“Never mind, then,” Billy murmured, and turned away, moving around the sofa. “Have a seat, I’ve food to eat if you’re hungry, and there’s probably something revolting on the telly.”

“Let me guess, you’ve cabbage-flavoured roast, all wrapped up in clingfilm,” Dom said, trying to sound amused. He followed Billy.

“Now there’s where you’d be wrong,” Billy said, stepping into his small kitchen. “I’ve cabbage-flavoured mince pies, actually.” Now Dom could hear the whisky, in Billy’s careful syllables, in the clipped cheer of his words.

Dom wondered if Billy would taste of whisky, as well, sour-strong burn of it on his tongue, his breath.

“Una didn’t say anything,” Dom said abruptly. Billy had his back to him, had stopped moving as Dom prowled up behind him; Billy’s hands were motionless, flat on the work top as the words came from Dom’s mouth without his volition. “There’s nothing, you know. No affair, nothing she’s not telling me. I’m a fool.”

“Dom,” Billy said, turning to face him. He looked startled by Dom’s close proximity, lips parting, eyes round for just a moment as he pressed himself back against a cupboard. “You need to talk to her. If the two of you can’t even be together for two days without wanting to quarrel and fight, how -” He gestured helplessly. “Dom.” His eyes - they were so green, Dom thought - focused in, and he smiled, almost reluctantly. “Are you even listening, you great drunken -”

“I wish she was cheating on me,” Dom said. Billy’s nape was hot, flushing red under his fingers as they curved around it, and Billy’s shoulder was solid and firm under his other palm as Dom leaned forward. “I’m going to kiss you now,” Dom said, moving slowly.

“Dom,” Billy said, and his voice was helpless, but his mouth met Dom’s with only the barest of hesitations.

He did taste of whisky, and he smelled good: of his spicy aftershave and faintly of soap and sweat. His mouth was soft and warm and wet, tongue shy and then - as they both inhaled through their noses and Dom pressed closer - bold, darting into Dom’s mouth, slowing, licking as Dom licked at him: tasting, exploring. Billy’s hands were firm on Dom’s hips, and he was exactly the right height for kissing, head tilted in opposition to Dom’s, knees bumping his as they shifted slightly. The soft hairs at his nape bristled under the pads of Dom’s fingers, and Dom slid his hand upwards, cupping the curve of Billy’s skull, kissing and kissing him.

Billy turned his head away. Away from Dom’s mouth, but he didn’t go further; he rested his cheek against Dom’s, nose along his cheekbone, breath noisy in Dom’s ear. “Christ,” he whispered.

“I don’t care,” Dom said, confused, heated. “I’m not sorry.” He clutched Billy, ducked his head and pressed the bridge of his nose and his closed eyes to Billy’s shoulder. “I’m not.”

“Ach, Dommie,” Billy sighed. “I wish you weren’t. I wish I wasn’t.” His hands tightened, slipped around so his arms held Dom.

“You’re not,” Dom said into Billy’s jumper.

“Dom.” Billy pushed him back gently, letting him go. “We can’t do this. I can’t, all right?”

“No.” Dom growled it, pushing forward, jostling Billy back into the work top again. “You want it - this - me, as much as I want you.” He grasped at Billy’s arms, holding them still, pinned to his sides. “You kissed me back.”

“Stop this, Dom,” Billy said, ominously muted. “I’ll not be the cause of it, of whatever you and Una have that’s wrong between you.”

Dom’s hands tightened. “You want me,” he said, angry, the wine buzzing in his ears, Billy’s green eyes burning into his own. “You kissed me back.”

Billy lifted his arms - it seemed so easy, and humiliation twisted through Dom as Billy broke away, sidestepped and then stood in the centre of the small, white-tiled room, facing Dom.

“I don’t deny it,” Billy said, low and intent, and Dom could see the effort it was taking him to be conciliatory, to be calm. “And I ask you to forgive it. We’re friends, Dom, it has to be -” He took a breath, chest rising visibly. “Enough. It has to be enough, being friends.”

“Fuck that,” Dom said, hearing his voice crack, snarl, feeling rage and helplessness twine through his veins, igniting alongside the heat of his want. “Fuck you, that it’s enough for you. That it’s easy for you.”

“Do you think it is, so?” Billy hissed, stepping closer suddenly. His eyes were dark, face hard and tight. “D’you think it’s easy, you flirting and making kiss-me faces at me, fitting me like a fucking glove and driving me mad half the time, me wanting nothing more than to hold you down and fuck you raw, Dominic Monaghan, do you think that’s easy, then?”

Dom gaped, jaw loose and then clenched again.

“Do it, then. Or do you want my fiancée’s money more than you want my arse?” Dom had clenched his fists, too, he realised, every muscle in his body tensed for a fight, a collision, and he knew that if Billy touched him, they would hit one another, wrestle, splinter into violence and end by fucking on the kitchen floor and _Christ_, he wanted it so bad he was hard in his trousers, his breath was thick in his lungs with rage and lust and misery and drunkenness and sharp, blind desire.

“Bastard -” Billy lifted his hand; it flashed through Dom’s mind how easily Billy had broken his grip a moment ago, but Billy pulled himself up and stood still. Dom could see his hand tremble as he lowered it. Silence flared between them, and when Billy spoke, it was quietly, with taut control. “I’m going to bed,” he said, stepping around Dom. “You can sleep on the sofa if you’d like, or call for a taxi.”

“That’s it?” Dom said, pivoting to watch Billy’s back as he retreated.

“Sleep it off,” Billy said, not looking back, and Dom wasn’t sure if it was satisfaction or misery he felt when Billy’s control didn’t last; the bedroom door slammed behind him hard enough that the walls trembled.

~*~


	6. Chapter 6

Dom woke up too many hours later to Billy’s weight, settling onto his feet.

“Hey,” Billy said.

Dom whimpered and turned over, away from the light, kicking feebly at Billy as he burrowed into the back of the sofa. “Rrrrnghhh,” he groaned. His voice cracked halfway through, and he burrowed into the rough fabric of the cushions.

“Yes,” Billy said, “something like that.” He shifted. “There’s aspirins and water, and I’m making tea. And...” Dom was too tired, he told himself, to try and analyse the pause. “...you’re a right bastard when you’re drunk, but I’m glad I didn’t bash you.”

“Ngk,” Dom said, but he wriggled a little until his face was pointed upwards, at least, eyes glued shut still. “M’glad you didn’t, too. Thanks.”

“Aye, well.” Billy stood up, and Dom turned his face back into the cushions, nearly smiling to himself despite the hangover galloping through his skull, as he heard Billy’s involuntary grunt and the creak of his knees. “Get your lazy arse off m’sofa, then, and drink my tea and p’raps I’ll forget how well you deserved a solid beating.”

The bathroom was far too bright, and Dom kept his eyes mostly closed as he took a piss and had a wash, warm water splashing over his aching face, Billy’s mouthwash to take the taste of death out of his mouth. He squinted at himself and made a discouraged face; hair on end, face creased with sleep and shadowed with stubble, circles under his eyes and the rest of his skin too pale. “You Romeo, you,” he muttered to his reflection, turning away, too tired and anxious to be properly repulsed.

The kitchen was bright, too, but Billy was quiet, thank Christ, moving carefully with his own hangover, though he looked better off than Dom, at least. He gave Dom tea and a half-hearted slice of toast and margarine, setting the bottle of aspirin by his elbow as Dom slumped over the tabletop, head in his hands, inhaling the steam from his cup.

When Billy sat down it was with a screech from his pulled-out chair, and both of them winced.

“Sorry,” Billy murmured, and Dom looked up.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted out. Billy opened his mouth to reply but Dom charged on, wobbly but determined. “No, shut it, I’m sorry, I was an arsehole, and what I said was, was awful. It was rubbish, and I apologise.”

“Easy there,” Billy said. His face was calm enough, but unreadable, and Dom felt another surge of distress.

“No, no,” he said. “You’re a good friend, and I’m sorry I said... what I did. It was probably unforgivable.” He looked down at his tea again. It was too milky to see his own image, and he was glad of it.

“Don’t go jumping off any bridges,” Billy said after a pause. “You were drunk, and I was drunk, and that’s enough about it, I think.”

“Erm.” Dom glanced up. “You accept my apology, then?”

“I do,” Billy said, and Dom was absurdly grateful that he hadn’t said _For what?_ or pretended there was nothing to forgive. Dom wasn’t (really) sorry for the kisses, but the ache for his insult was real enough, sharp enough that at Billy’s words, Dom’s headache lessened abruptly.

“Thanks,” Dom said. He met Billy’s eyes cautiously: tired, half-open, but clear and calm. “Thank you.”

Dom busied himself with toast and tea and medicating himself, and if they were silent, it was closer to comfortable than it had been.

“I’ve got to go to the soup kitchen,” Dom said finally. “I think we’re supposed to be there by one.”

“Are you going dressed like that?” Billy smiled.

Dom looked down at his wrinkled trousers and shirt. “Er. Well, I suppose so, unless you want to lend me something?”

“Come on,” Billy said, standing up. They both winced and then snorted as his chair shrieked again.

Dressed in Billy’s (slightly tight) jeans and a plain blue shirt, Dom came out of the bedroom and held his hands out to the sides. “Will I do?”

“Well, I suppose there’s nothing we can do about your hair,” Billy said, and Dom made as though to swat him. “You’ll do fine,” Billy said, smiling.

“Come with me,” Dom said on impulse.

Billy blinked. “I’ve got work,” he said, but the temptation was there in his voice.

“No, no,” Dom said, “it’s a bank holiday.” He grabbed Billy’s hand and tugged him toward the door. “Come on, you know you want to.” And he couldn’t help the fact that he’d said it flirtatiously, but he could turn red and drop Billy’s hand and clap his own hand over his face.

Billy snickered.

And moved toward the door. “Ach, calm yourself,” he said, the laughter clear under it. “There’s no need to stop being Dom, all right?” He reached for Dom’s coat and tossed it at him, then pulled his own from its hook. “Come on, we’ll be late.”

~*~*~*~

Seven cast members showed up to work in the kitchen. While Dom and three others scuffled and fought to be at the front, Billy quietly began washing dishes with two of the charity’s regular employees and another actor. Dom appeared beside him a few minutes later, rolling up his sleeves, and the afternoon passed easily, their discomfort waning as they traded jibes and performed, joking and flipping soapsuds at each other, for those who came and went beside them.

“I’m soaked,” Billy complained as they shrugged their coats on. The dining area was finally empty, echoing and dim in contrast to the bright kitchen behind them.

They stepped out into the evening, darkness falling early, along with a thin grey sleet that clicked on the pavement and passing cars. “Come to my place, it’s close,” Dom said. “I’ll loan you some clothes, give you yours back.” He pulled his scarf close and tugged his hat lower.

“Walking close, or taxi close?” Billy asked. He huddled into his coat, shivering; his nose and ears were bright pink in the wash of a streetlamp.

Dom jogged down the street towards the bus stop. “Bus close,” he said, and grinned at Billy’s dismayed noise. At the shelter he gave Billy his hat, and when the bus finally came, slow on its bank holiday schedule even through the empty streets, he pushed Billy aboard first.

“I’ve never been to your flat,” Billy said, following him up the stairs. Dom shrugged one shoulder and turned the key in the lock; Billy stepped in directly after him, shivering still. “It’s, ehm.”

“Small,” Dom said dryly, reaching round Billy to close the door and flick on the lamp.

In the light it was cheery, though: the walls painted soft green, a bright rug in primary colours crooked before the closed-up sofabed; a yellow duvet was folded neatly at one end. Framed photos cluttered one wall, and a row of prints marched over the door into the closet-sized kitchen. Another door led into the loo, and Dom swept his arm out grandly. “Welcome to my castle,” he said, smiling.

“It’s cosy, I was going to say,” Billy replied. He crossed to lean on the small desk and look out the window. “And you have a stellar view of the adult book shop across the way.”

“I do,” Dom agreed. “Many’s the time I’ve sat at my desk and watched the perverts come and go and thought _Ah, Dommie, this is the life, old chap_.”

“They’re hiring,” Billy said, straightening, turning to smile maliciously at Dom. “If that acting thing doesn’t work out, you know.”

“My mother always did say acting was a waste,” Dom said. He wanted to kiss Billy so badly that it actually hurt - a sharp, discreet ache just at the back of his throat, and he smiled at him instead. “Would you care for some tea?”

“I’m frozen, that would be perfect,” Billy said. “My clothes have dried, at least.” He had shrugged off his coat and pulled off Dom’s hat, and was inspecting his front.

“Well, that’s good I suppose.” Dom retreated into the kitchen, tossing his own coat and scarf onto the chest of drawers as he passed it. “Unless really they’ve only frozen solid.”

When he came back to the living area Billy was sat at the desk, looking at a picture of Dom and Una from a year ago - a ski trip they’d taken, courtesy of the MacTavishes, of course. Dom set the mugs down and came to look over Billy’s shoulder at the framed photograph.

“She’s very pretty,” Billy said thoughtfully.

“Yes,” Dom said. “She is. That was in Germany,” he added. “Garmisch-Partenkirchen, right on the Austrian border. It was a family trip, and she convinced her father to take me along.”

“You look happy,” Billy said. “She does, too.”

Dom examined the photo. “She does. She doesn’t...” He spoke slowly, the words coming clear as he said them, as he looked her pink, glowing face in the picture. “She doesn’t look happy now.”

“What d’you think is the matter?” Billy asked quietly. He wasn’t looking at Dom, but at the photo; his hands were quiet and steady, holding the frame.

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s just that it’s me, and the fact that we can’t stand to be around one another for more than two hours without going stark raving mad anymore.” Dom crouched beside Billy’s chair, and put his forehead against Billy’s denimed leg. “Maybe it’s that she wants someone she can’t have.”

“Dom,” Billy said, and his voice was a warning.

“I know,” Dom said, low. “I just wish.” He butted his head into Billy’s thigh for a moment. “Wish there wasn’t so much at stake.” He sighed, shaky, and felt Billy’s hand light on his hair, barely there and then firmer, comforting.

“It’s all just fucking rubbish,” Billy said. “I want to.” He stopped, and Dom looked up. Billy’s hand slid from his hair, but Billy didn’t seem to notice; he’d put the picture aside, and was staring blankly at the window. Maybe at his own reflection there. “Say things, to you, but.”

“But what?” Dom rocked back onto his heels, not touching Billy at all, now. “Just say it, Bill.” He smiled, small and tight. “It can’t be any worse than what I said.”

“You were drunk,” Billy said, dismissing it. He looked at Dom, then slid out of the chair and stood, pacing to the other side of the small room. “I want to say, as, as your _friend_, Dom, you know, that you should break it off with Una – you’re _terrible_ together, my god, you’ve never once sounded happy to be getting married, d’you know that? And she’s not happy either, but neither of you has the fecking balls to _do_ anything about it. I want to tell you you’re an idiot. But.” He stopped pacing and threw his hands into the air.

“You’re right, all right?” Dom began, standing from his crouch, stretching to his toes for an instant, frustrated.

“But I might just be saying all those things because I want, _so much_, to get into your pants,” Billy said, cutting him off. “I’m an idiot,” he concluded, looking so miserable that Dom crossed the room in four steps and kissed him.

Billy grabbed his arms and kissed him back.

“Ah, this is _terrible_,” Billy said when they broke apart, gasping. His hands were tight on Dom’s arms, still, mouth damp and red.

Dom gave a scared snort of laughter. “I meant to just give you a hug,” he said, and Billy laughed, too, helplessly.

He let go Dom’s arms and sank down on the sofa, rubbing his hands through his hair. “Fuck,” he whispered, as if to himself, and Dom sat beside him, carefully not touching him.

“I wonder if Mr. MacTavish would cut off the orders for kilts if I broke up with Una,” Dom said, half-smiling, wanting to swear. Or cry.

Billy snorted, lifting his head. “I expect he would if you did it because you were shagging the kilt maker,” he said. He looked away, the tendon in his neck standing out sharply.

“Probably,” Dom said, trying to distract himself. Trying not to kiss Billy’s neck, bite that tendon gently. “Maybe if Una broke it off, first...” He laughed again, humourlessly, and when Billy turned back to him he was ready, hands already reaching to curve around his neck, pull him closer; eyes half-closed as he fell, again, into kissing Billy.

It was impossible, heated, wrong. Billy’s mouth alive and quick against his own, Billy’s hands rising to cup his face, trailing over his neck, his shoulders, his arms. Dom pulled him closer yet, kissing his mouth, his chin, jaw, throat. Billy shuddered as Dom bit at his collarbone, mouthing smooth skin and the fragile arch of the bone beneath; Billy’s pulse fluttered against Dom’s lips in the hollow of his throat. His knee was warm under Dom’s hand, warm and alive.

“God, I want this...” Dom stopped the rest of the words before they could pass his lips, stopped himself before he slid his hand further (all the way) up Billy’s thigh. He sat up and back and looked at Billy, at his downturned eyes, the damp curve of his lips.

“It’s not right, though,” Billy said. “Friends, Dom. I think that’s hard enough now - I can’t take anything more. I - I just can’t. I won’t.”

Dom nodded, mute for a moment. He swallowed and found breath. “If I weren’t, if things, if I were -” The words came out too fast, he knew already it was too much to ask, he didn’t want an answer but couldn’t stop himself - “If I weren’t so fucking _tangled_, would you?”

Billy’s hands clenched in his lap and Dom stared at them, fascinated, unable to look at his face. “Dom. Of course I - how can you ask? Already, I mean... I seem to know you far too well, all your screwups and madness and I don’t even care, I, I seem to love you too well, I can’t - _shite_.” He scrubbed his knuckles over his face roughly. “I’m sorry. I should go.”

Dom nodded, and stayed seated where he was as Billy stood, as he pulled his jacket on and zipped it completely, hiding himself in the nylon and down, chin tucked low into the collar.

“There’s a taxi rank two streets back the way we came,” Dom said. “If you don’t want to wait for the bus. There’s usually a cab there, even on bank holidays...” His voice came out smaller than he’d meant.

“Thanks,” Billy said. “Ehm. I think.”

Dom looked up quickly.

“I think maybe we shouldn’t.” Billy was studying his toes. “I mean... I’ll call you next week. When your kilt is finished.”

Dom looked down. “All right.”

“Don’t look like that,” Billy said softly, and Dom couldn’t help but look up again, meeting Billy’s green gaze, unable to hide his flinch. Billy pretended not to notice, and pressed on. “Friends, yes. Truly. But just a few days, all right? A few days to, to relax.” He smiled, a little: quirk of his lips at one corner.

“Relaxing sounds good,” Dom said.

“All right, then? All right.” Billy plucked Dom’s cap from the hook and pulled it over his hair. “You’ll have to come and fetch your cap, anyway.”

“Just like a thieving bloody Scot,” Dom murmured, nearly smiling. Wishing he could erase his question and Billy’s stammered answer and the truth that was undoing Dom, even though he almost-smiled and spoke his lines and didn’t break into a dozen pieces.

“You know it.” Billy winked solemnly, almost-smiling in his turn, and slipped out the door.

~*~


	7. Chapter 7

The phone rang and Dom startled, wondering what time it was, how long he’d been sitting there looking at his own hands. He stayed still, waiting for the ansaphone to pick up.

“You’ve got it. Know what to do with it? Go.” His own cheerful recorded voice made him wince.

“Dom, it’s Una. Are you there?” She waited a beat. “I talked to Kyle, he said you’d finished at the soup kitchen and headed home, so I thought...” A pause, and her indrawn breath was audible. “I was hoping you’d be there so I could come over, but I suppose it can -”

“Hullo?”

“Dom, there you are.”

“I was seeing Billy to the taxi rank,” Dom said. “Just walked in the door.”

“Oh, your friend, the kilt maker.”

“He came to the soup kitchen with me, volunteered to wash dishes. He got all wet. I offered to loan him a jumper, that’s all...” Dom trailed off, unable to summon up the energy to deflect the curiosity he could practically hear vibrating off Una. “You wanted to talk?”

“Can I come over?”

Dom looked around his tiny flat. Reasonably tidy. “Of course,” he said. “Whenever you’d like.” He wondered why he hadn’t cared how it looked for Billy.

“Right. I’ll be there in half an hour, then.”

~*~*~*~

She tapped at the door and then opened it, stepping inside as Dom stood from the sofa.

“Hey,” he said, crossing to help her off with her coat. “You look nice.” He kissed her cheek.

“Thank you,” she said. She unwrapped her scarf and hung it over the collar of her coat where Dom had placed it on the hook. “Did you have a good day?”

“Yes,” he said. “Well. Yes, I suppose so.”

She was looking at him sharply. “Dom. What’s the matter?” Her lips pressed together, eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “What’ve you done?”

He turned away. “Nothing.” Bile rose in the back of his throat and he choked. “No, that’s not true.” He forced himself to face her, to look at her: shining dark hair and blank, waiting face. “I think we should call off the wedding, Una.”

“You think...” Her mouth opened and then closed again. She lifted one hand to her lips and held it there.

“I’m so sorry, I should’ve told you so before,” Dom went on; he felt reckless - terrible and nauseated. “I should’ve said it back in September, October, not waited till now. I’m so sorry.”

She was shaking her head.

“I love you so much, but we’ll be wretched together, Una, and I’m sorry, I know you want the wedding and the marriage and everything but I can’t, I just can’t pretend everything is fine when it’s not. When I’m miserable and you’ve been unhappy for months, now...” He trailed off.

She looked at him, still with her hand pressed over her own mouth.

“What?” he said, feet weighted with lead, hands twisting nervously.

“Is it because of your new friend?” she said, lowering her hand. She didn’t look - angry. Blank, rather. “The kilt maker. Billy.”

“Yes. No. Yes and no,” Dom said. “Yes, I am - I’m attracted to him.” The inadequacy, the _lie_, made his teeth hurt, but there was a greater truth beyond it. “So yes. But the thing is -” he lifted his hand, let it fall again - “I didn’t want to get married before I even met him. I don’t know if.” He stopped.

“You don’t know if you ever wanted to get married,” she said.

He shrugged, staring at the floor.

“I don’t want to get married, either,” Una said.

He looked up at her so quickly it hurt his neck. She looked tired, and sad, and frustrated, and... relieved. “Why?” he blurted.

She smiled at that, and he remembered why he’d gone out on that first date with her (well, besides her very fine shape); she _smirked_, just a bit, and looked wicked, more than just a bit. “I’m sorry, are you the only one allowed to be miserable?” she asked.

“Christ,” he said, closing his eyes for a moment with gratitude. “No.”

“Do you know Jean-Marc?”

Dom blinked, confused. “Jean... the pastry chef?” He laughed, startled. “Oh my god, are you having an affair with the cake maker?”

“What?” She stared at him. “No!”

“Then... what?” He threw his hands into the air. “Do you want to sit down? Something to drink?”

“Some tea would be good,” she said after a blank pause.

She stood in the doorway of the kitchen and watched him put on the kettle, ready the cups. “You can talk, if you want,” he said, not turning to her.

“All right, then,” she said. “Jean-Marc has a school, a culinary college in Provence where he teaches in the summer.”

Dom turned, leaning back against the counter to listen, to watch her. “That sounds nice.”

“It does,” Una said. “And I want to attend it. I’m sick of teaching, I want something new and you know I’m a good cook. So I asked him about it and he told me how to apply and...” She shrugged one narrow shoulder, looking straight at Dom. “I was accepted.”

“You could still go, even if we got married,” Dom said quietly.

“I know that,” she snapped. “But I don’t want to be married, Dom, not right now and not - forgive me -” her voice softened - “to you.” She drew in a breath and spoke over the rising sound of the boiling water, bubbling merrily behind Dom. “I want to go and do something new, something I love, something my family has nothing to do with. Something for _me_, not for them or against them or about them at all.” She looked apologetically at him, and the button on the kettle popped loudly, startling him. “I do love you, Dom, but you’re right - we’d be wretched together.”

“Oh,” he said, and turned, busying himself with the tea. He knew how she took hers, and felt an abrupt twinge at that; setting the spoon aside, he turned again and grabbed her, pulling her forward into a short, tight hug. “You are fabulous,” he said into her hair. “You’ll make a fantastic chef.”

“Oof.” She breathed in deeply, and he felt a quiver run through her thin body, then she was still, and her hands came up to hug him back. “Thank you, Dom.”

They stood that way for a few minutes; finally Dom let her go, and she took her tea silently. He didn’t mention her pink nose or damp eyes or steady, sure smile.

They sat on the sofa and she told him about Jean-Marc, about what she’d cooked for him and what his school was like, what she hoped to learn. “I’m quite excited,” she said, and she looked it, brighter than he’d seen her in ages, more relaxed.

“Chuffed, I’d think - making it into the college on the first try,” he said, smiling.

“I am,” she replied, smiling at her empty teacup. The room fell silent for a long minute, and Dom set his cup aside and thought about the fact that it was late, and he’d might have completely ruined Billy’s business while escaping from the worst mistake of his life to date.

“What’re you thinking?” Una asked. “You’re thinking about your friend.”

“Yeah.” Dom studied his hands. “He has -” _a lot of orders for kilts from your family_, he couldn’t finish; he just shook his head. “He’s a good man.”

“Have you done anything with him?” Una asked suddenly.

“No!” Dom exclaimed. “Er.”

“Er?” Una said pointedly.

“I kissed him.”

She waved her hand. “You kiss everyone.” She cocked her head. “Does he know you kiss everyone?”

Dom couldn’t stop the corner of his mouth from quirking up. “Yeah.”

“And he doesn’t mind?” She was fighting to keep from smiling, and Dom had a moment’s disorientation. This was not at all how he had imagined this conversation would go.

“Uh, no. I don’t think so.” Dom rubbed the back of his neck, smiling a little at the floor. “No.”

“Well, that’s good.” She was looking at him, her eyebrows raised. “Are you in love with him?”

“I don’t know!” Dom rolled his eyes. “This is _really_ uncomfortable,” he said.

She was smirking at him. “You owe me.”

“Yes,” Dom said.

“Yes, you owe me, or yes, you know. The other thing.” The smirk had smoothed into curiosity and Dom looked away, because he had no idea how to handle this situation.

“The second one,” Dom said quietly. “I’m sorry,” he added, because he thought maybe he should.

“Does he know?” she asked.

“I think so.” Dom met her eyes. “He’s not stupid, and despite outward appearances, I’m not much of an actor.”

“I wouldn’t say that at all,” she replied. She didn’t sound upset.

He snorted. “What’re you going to tell your father?” he asked.

“Oh, you know, I’ll blame it all on you,” she said lightly. “Shagging the kilt maker or something.”

“No!” Dom bit his lip.

She turned sideways on the sofa to regard him more closely. “I was only joking.”

“Sorry,” Dom said. He rubbed the back of his neck again, and didn’t meet Una’s eyes.

“What is it, Dom?” She put a hand on his leg for a moment. “Out with it.”

He looked up at her, and knew Billy would murder him. “Your family ordered a lot of kilts from Billy,” he said. “I just - I hate the thought that he’ll lose business because of, of me.”

She looked at him steadily.

“Sorry,” Dom muttered. “I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

“Maybe you aren’t much of an actor,” Una said. “I don’t -”

“I don’t care if you blame me,” Dom interrupted, meeting her eyes. “It’s my fault, after all. But it’s not his. He’s never - he’s never let me do worse than kiss him, and even that - he stopped even that.”

“Are you trying to tell me he’s a good man?” Una asked.

“He is,” Dom said, lifting his chin. “He is a good man.”

“I remember him from that night at the theatre, you know,” Una said. “He’s quite funny.”

Dom shrugged. “He is. And kind-hearted, too. He’s. I don’t know.” Dom gestured helplessly. “He doesn’t deserve to be punished for what I’ve done, what didn’t work between you and me.”

Una pursed her lips. “It’s a good thing for you that I’m kind-hearted, as well,” she said. “I’ll keep his name out of it. Billy’s, I mean.”

“You will,” Dom said blankly.

“I promise,” she said. She stood up. “After all, the cousins will still need those kilts, whether we’re to be married or not,” she added.

Dom stood hastily. “Thank you,” he said.

She lifted one shoulder, a familiar habit: Una. She was smiling with half her mouth. “I don’t think I can talk Father into paying for _your_ kilt,” she said.

Dom nearly laughed. “No, I - no, god. Una.” He grabbed her again, bird-thin bones and sleek dark hair under his nose. “I will always have free tickets to the theatre for you,” he said fiercely.

She laughed into his chest, and squeezed him back before stepping away, smoothing her hair. “Bastard,” she said gently, and Dom acknowledged it without a word, smiling a little. “I’ll call you and tell you how it goes with my father,” she said, opening the door, lifting her coat from the hook. “Good-bye.”

“Bye.” He watched the door swing shut behind her.

“Oh god.” He sank onto the sofa, betrayed by shaky knees. It was all just a bit too much.

~*~


	8. Chapter 8

The bell over the door made its usual tinny jangle when Dom pushed the door open. “I’ll be out in a tic!” came Billy’s voice from the back. When he did emerge, his arms were full of fabric, bright red, moss green, rich blue. “Oh.” He stopped for a moment, then came the rest of the way in. “Ehm. Hullo, Dom.”

Dom stayed where he was, twisting his scarf in his hands by the front door, as Billy lay the bolts of cloth to one side on his work table. “Hi,” he said. “Happy New Year’s Eve, then.”

“Hogmanay,” Billy said, a small smile curving his lips. “Your kilt’s almost finished, but I stopped working on it for a few days – Mr. MacTavish called, said he wanted to collect the others as soon as possible.” There was a stack of boxes beneath the tables, plain and white, rectangular, each with a neat tartan label on it.

“About that,” Dom said. His throat closed up.

Billy was leaning back onto his work table, half-sitting on it, swinging one jeans-clad leg. His arms were folded across his chest. “Are you coming in, Dom, or were you planning to stand there strangling your scarf for a while?”

Dom coughed, abrupt and painful. “Sorry.” He took a few tentative steps toward Billy. The room was quiet and dim, the worklight bright and golden behind Billy, making it hard to read his face. “I know the kilt’s not ready.”

“Have you come for your hat, then?” Billy stood up, but stayed by the table, looking down. “It’s not that I’m not glad to see you.” He paused, and Dom heard a few cars swish by in the wet street outside. “It’s. Mr. MacTavish is coming by to pick up the kilts in a bit - I told him I’d keep the shop open for him. Early closing, usually, you know...”

“The wedding’s off,” Dom said without thinking. Billy looked up, face sharp for an instant, and Dom ploughed on. “But he’s still buying the kilts. I, I had to come and tell you, because Una called this morning and said he’d mentioned he was coming to get the orders, and I thought he’d tell you the wedding was off, and I wanted to, to tell you first.”

Billy didn’t say anything. His arms had tightened across his body, and he seemed to studying the carpet intently, brows drawn down, frowning.

“Erm.” Dom shifted in place; inhaled and took a few more hesitant steps forward.

“When did all that happen,” Billy’s hand illustrated a vague curve in the air, coming back to his body, folding up again, “you know, when did you and Una. How’d that happen, then?”

Dom was closer; he could see Billy clearly, now. “Boxing Day. I mean, night. About an hour after you left, Una called.” Billy looked up at him now, and his face was as hard as Dom had ever seen it, closed and unreadable; Dom swallowed and went on. “She came over to,” he nearly laughed, “to tell me she wanted out. And before she could, I told her I wanted out.” A flicker of something - humour? - fled across Billy’s face, leaving it still closed, but no longer hard. “She wasn’t having an affair with the French guy, she was, she was _auditioning_ for him, she wants to go to cooking school in France in the summer, and she doesn’t want to be married, and she doesn’t want to be married to _me_.” He stopped, chewing on his lip, smiling a little because Billy didn’t look like he was about to murder him.

“Hard to believe,” Billy said. He pursed his lips; Dom knew he was trying not to smile.

“Yeah.” Dom came even closer. “It is, I know.”

“Did you tell her...” Billy looked as if he was searching for the right words, but Dom already knew what he wanted to say.

“About us? About me kissing you?” Billy snorted, shaking his head, and Dom touched his arm. “It was me, Bill, you didn’t - that wasn’t your fault.”

Billy’s head came up, chin tipped back defiantly. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “I’m an adult, Dom, I’m perfectly capable of taking responsibility when I’m an arsehole.”

Dom shook his head. “I - well. Yes, she knows. But I told her the truth, too, that we’d never done more than kiss, that I wanted out because I wanted out, not because of you. That she and I make better friends than anything else.”

Billy huffed a little at that. “That’s true anyway.” He met Dom’s eyes again.

“I asked her.” Dom didn’t look away, but felt his heart quicken. “I asked her to leave you out of it, when she told her family. I told her that you shouldn’t lose the orders just because of her and me.”

“You said _what?_” Billy yelled. Dom flinched. “You complete fucking wanker, that’s not - what the hell did you think you were about?”

“It’s true!” Dom cried. “You _shouldn’t_ be punished because I’m an idiot!”

Billy glared at him. “And did you tell her how close I am to closing up shop? Draw a fucking _diagram_, maybe?” He shoved Dom. “It’s no business of yours, dammit!”

“It’s _completely_ my business!” Dom yelled. He shoved Billy back. “And for your information I _didn’t_ draw any diagrams, or tell her how much that fucking money means.”

“I don’t need charity from the goddamned _MacTavishes_,” Billy hissed, then turned away.

The bell over the door clanged.

“Hullo, hullo.” Dom turned away from Billy, forcing his face into a semblance of normality. “Oh, Dominic, how are you? Una told me you were friendly with Mr. Boyd.” Mr. MacTavish’s sharp, pleasant face didn’t change at all with these words, and Dom attempted to retrieve his tongue from where he’d swallowed it. “And Mr. Boyd, how are you this afternoon?”

“I’m well, thank you,” Billy said. He sounded calm; his face was flushed, but there was no other sign that he’d been apparently ready to throttle Dom ten seconds ago. “I have your orders all packaged up - it’s quite a load, I hope you’ve room.”

“Brought the Land Rover, should be fine,” Mr. MacTavish said. He stood where he was, hands tucked into the pockets of his fine coat, looking at Dom and Billy. “So has young Dominic told you the sad news?” MacTavish said.

“He just was,” Billy replied, shooting a quick, unreadable glance at Dom. “I’m sorry to hear about that.” He took a deep breath. “And of course if you’ll not need the kilts, then I can’t in good conscience -” Dom opened his mouth to say _something_ -

“Don’t be daft,” MacTavish said, bluff and bland. “All those lads will still need their kilts, whether Dom and Una are to be married or not.” Dom heard the echo of Una’s words in the sentence, and stared at the floor.

“If -” Billy’s voice was uncertain. “If you’re certain, Mr. MacTavish.”

“I am,” MacTavish said. He looked at Dom; Dom dragged his eyes up to meet the older man’s eyes. “I don’t think I’ll be purchasing your kilt, however, Mr. Monaghan.” His voice was perfectly cool.

“I didn’t expect it, sir.” Dom straightened his shoulders. “I’ll pay for Mr. Boyd’s trouble, though I don’t expect I’ll wear the item.”

Billy started to speak - Dom caught the movement out of the corner of his eye - but MacTavish was nodding, a small, satisfied movement. “That will do, then.” He gestured to the boxes. “Shall we?”

All three carried boxes through the sleet, stowing them in the capacious boot of the Land Rover. They stood in the thin weather after, hunched into their coats. “That’s all, is it?” MacTavish said to Billy after slamming down the rear gate of the vehicle, and Billy nodded. “Here you are, in that case,” MacTavish said, and pulled an envelope from his pocket. Dom shifted nervously, but Billy took the envelope, nodding his thanks.

“It was a pleasure,” Billy said. His nose was red with cold.

“I do not think,” MacTavish said with conviction, “that I shall be using your services again, Mr. Boyd. However, you are a decent tailor, and a native son, and I believe there are others who might avail themselves of your services.” He shot a glance at Dom, then back at Billy, who looked merely attentive. “I mean to say, despite the poor circumstances under which our association is necessarily ending,” _Oh Christ Una told him_, Dom thought in a panic, struggling to keep it off his face, “I can and shall send other business your way, should the opportunity arise.” He offered his hand, and Billy shook it firmly.

“Thank you, sir, that would be kind,” he said.

“Dominic,” MacTavish said, turning to him; Dom shook his hand numbly. “Take care of yourself, lad. I’m sure I’ll see you at the theatre now and again.”

“Thank you, sir,” Dom said. “Goodbye. Happy New Year.”

“And to both of you.” MacTavish climbed in. Billy and Dom stepped back from the kerb and watched him drive away.

“Fuck, it’s cold,” Billy said.

Dom nodded.

The inside of the shop was steamy; Dom stood to one side as Billy walked about, turning things off, tidying as he went. Finally Billy was at the door. “Well, go on, then,” he said, turning the small sign over to read “Closed.” Dom nodded again, still mute, and followed Billy out the door into the cold again.

Billy unlocked the narrow door that led up to his flat and turned to Dom. “Are you coming up?”

“...Yes?” Dom said, unsure. His stomach was doing rolls and loops; he couldn’t tell what Billy was thinking.

Billy’s apartment was dim; he took off his coat, snapped on the lamps, strode away without looking back. “Lock the door, would you?” he called from the kitchen, and Dom did it silently, shrugging off his jacket afterwards, though he didn’t hang it up.

When he turned back around, clutching his anorak, Billy stood by the sofa. “So,” Billy said.

“Um.” Dom fisted his hands in the nylon.

Billy was looking at him steadily. “That was... interesting.” He cocked his head. “So you’re a free agent these days, eh?”

Dom relaxed - just a little - and tried a smile. “Guess so.”

“Got any plans for New Year’s Eve?” Billy was - by god, little bastard! - smirking. _Smirking_, and Dom tossed his jacket haphazardly back at the coat rack and walked toward him.

“Not really,” Dom said. He stopped a couple of feet away. Billy’s eyes were bright, his hair a little messy; he was smiling.

“Maybe we could get a drink or something,” Billy said. His cheeks were pink; it might have been from the cold. He shuffled closer.

Dom felt his mouth curving up crookedly. “Are you trying to get me drunk?” He’d got closer to Billy; he couldn’t quite figure out why, but he could smell Billy’s aftershave, see the way his lips parted.

Billy’s eyes flicked to his mouth, then back up, and everything sharpened: the sound of Dom’s breathing in his own ears, his focus on Billy, the uncomplicated spike of desire that arrowed through him.

“Well.” Billy cleared his throat and grinned, looking away. “Sometimes when you’re drunk, you do this thing where you try to snog me.”

It was just talking; Dom wasn’t quite listening, and he replied vaguely, leaning forward. “Yeah, sometimes...”

This kiss... This kiss was good, better, best. Billy’s lips were cool and soft against his, a little chapped, barely parted so they traded warm breath; Dom’s tongue slipped along the seam of his lips and _ah, god_. The inside of Billy’s mouth was hot and slick and his hands were firm on Dom’s waist, arms steady under Dom’s palms. The faint sandpaper rasp of his chin against Dom’s sent electric shocks down Dom’s spine and he made a sound, clutching Billy close, fitting their hips together, feeling Billy’s answering arousal.

Billy pulled back to inhale; leaned forward again. “Christ,” Billy said into his mouth, just before his tongue swept through Dom’s mouth, licked, tasted, ravished; his hand came up, cradling the back of Dom’s head, winding into his hair. They kept kissing, on and on and on, Dom’s breathing ratcheting higher, Billy’s soft, jagged gasps burning into Dom, winding him tighter so he had to hold Billy harder, had to press against him. “Dom, god,” Billy panted when they broke to breathe. “Can we please?”

“God, yeah,” Dom groaned. “_Finally_.”

Billy laughed, breathless, and they toppled onto the sofa, a controlled fall, Billy twisting so he was atop Dom. He leaned down to kiss him feverishly, mouth and then jaw, neck: holding his weight on one hand, pressed into the cushion beside Dom’s head. His other hand slid over Dom’s chest and belly, down to cup shamelessly between his legs. “Can I suck you?” Billy murmured against Dom’s skin.

Dom’s hips jerked up into Billy. “Okay,” he said, and Billy snickered into his neck, fingers fumbling at Dom’s waist. “Should have made me wear the damned kilt,” Dom said, pulling at Billy’s shirt until it was rucked up under his arms and Dom could slide his hands over Billy’s back, feeling the muscles shift and slide under the skin.

“I should at that,” Billy muttered, but then his hand was worming its way into Dom’s trousers and Dom shuddered and dug his fingertips into Billy’s back. Billy’s fingers were strong and clever, curled around Dom’s aching, _wanting_ cock, and Dom couldn’t help but move, thrusting as Billy stroked. It was awkward and jerky and constricted and Dom didn’t care _at all_.

“Bill -” he moaned. “Fuck, Billy, I’m going to come in my pants if you don’t - oh - stop that.”

Billy pulled his hand out and slid off the sofa. “Bad idea, then,” he said. He pulled until Dom was seated, mostly upright, Billy kneeling on the floor between his knees; Dom lifted his arse helpfully and Billy yanked his trousers and pants down. Dom shivered as Billy paused, eying his erection, hands warm on Dom’s thighs.

“What?” Dom asked. He touched Billy’s thin, fine hair.

Billy didn’t answer; or maybe he did. He bent and kissed Dom’s belly - his prick bumped Billy’s neck and Dom jumped, shivering - and down the line of hair to the base of Dom’s cock.

“Bill, please,” Dom said; his voice broke and Billy’s smile was sharp against the inner curve of his hip, but Billy shifted and wrapped one hand around the shaft and slid his mouth over the head and oh - oh, that was, that was good. Better than good. It was hot and wet and Dom struggled to keep his eyes open, because Billy looked better than good, too, face pink, lashes lowered as he concentrated. His cheeks hollowed and Dom moaned, suction and friction and heat as Billy’s head bobbed, his tongue sliding wetly over the head on the upswing, laving down the shaft as he went lower. His hand shifted, matching the rhythm his mouth had set, and Dom wriggled and squirmed until his legs were further apart, shifting down on the sofa. Billy’s other hand stroked along his thigh, short blunt fingernails scraping through the thin wiry hair, and then Billy got the hint from Dom’s splayed thighs – Dom was groaning, gasping, trying hard not to shove himself into the warm, wet cavern of Billy’s mouth – and used his free hand to palm Dom’s balls, rolling them, tugging on the loose skin until Dom clutched at his shoulders. “I’m close,” Dom choked out; Billy nodded (it pulled Dom’s cock up and then down, bumped the head against the top of Billy’s palate) and sucked hard, cupping Dom’s balls tenderly. Dom came. Long electric pulse of pleasure arching his back, fingers scrabbling for purchase as he cried out and thrust unevenly. Billy never stopped sucking, and when Dom finally shivered and tried to pull away, Billy’s mouth came off with a _pop_ and he looked right at Dom as he swallowed.

“God,” Dom rasped, dry-mouthed, and Billy grinned. “C’mere,” Dom said.

Billy climbed onto him, settling carefully so his trousers wouldn’t rub against Dom’s sensitive skin. “That was fun,” he said cheerfully; Dom could feel Billy’s erection digging into his belly.

“What do you want?” Dom asked, not giving him a chance to answer; he pulled him down for a kiss. It was dirty and slick, and Billy tasted like heat and desire and Dom, faint salt-sour tang of come. Billy let him for a minute or two, hips moving restlessly, the hard curve of his erection pressing into Dom’s stomach.

“I want to fuck you,” Billy said. “But I don’t think I can make it – I can’t wait that long.”

“Fuck my mouth,” Dom offered, and watched Billy’s eyes go half-lidded, dark and glazed.

“Yeah,” Billy said, “okay.”

He stood up for a moment to undress, and Dom kicked off his boots and then his trousers, sitting up for a moment to pull his jumper over his head. “Come here,” Dom said, sprawling back again. “Kneel over me.” He reached out and Billy took his hands, coming forward to kneel, his knees on the cushions to either side of Dom’s hips. Dom slid lower until Billy was leaning over him; Billy released Dom’s hands and grabbed the back of the sofa. “God,” Billy breathed, and Dom smirked up at him.

“Just _Dom_ is fine,” he said.

Billy grinned and smacked him gently on the side of the head. “You just look good, that’s all,” Billy said. “I’m not going to take much.”

“An easy job,” Dom said, smiling. He looked at Billy’s cock, inches from his face, red and stiff, beginning to leak. “I like that.” He leaned forward and licked across the head, tasting: salty and sharp, intoxicating.

Dom put his hands on Billy’s hips, thumbs on the bone, fingers splayed around to hold his (really nice, firm, small) arse. “C’mon, then,” Dom murmured, and pulled Billy forward, into his mouth.

And god, it was good. The weight of Billy’s cock on his tongue, the little pulses of precome that seemed to coincide with Billy’s muttered _fuck, oh, fuck_s, the stuttering thrusts Billy was using: short and tight, careful. It’d been a long time, but Dom wanted this: Billy’s cock deep in his mouth, his loss of control, his body hard and shivering over Dom. Dom moaned around Billy’s cock, tightening his fingers, dragging him inward, deeper. Billy gasped and stroked harder for an instant, balls swinging loose and soft and heavy against Dom’s chin as he shoved inward. Dom moaned again and gripped Billy’s arse, letting his eyes flutter shut as he concentrated on the sound of Billy’s jagged breath, his hitching groans. “M’close, I’m gonna come,” Billy said in a rush; his voice was high and desperate, and Dom hummed and took him deep for an instant, swallowing. He couldn’t keep it up, but he could let Billy slide in deep on every thrust. It only took three more before Billy was keening: a sharp, harsh sound that made Dom shudder even as Billy’s come spurted, thick and warm, across his tongue, into the back of his mouth. Dom held him in place and swallowed, still sucking, greedily taking everything for himself.

“Anngh,” Billy managed, pulling back and out – his cock was red and still thick, hard, shiny with Dom’s saliva. “Fuck, that was perfect,” Billy said, holding himself up. His biceps flexed and shook, and Dom leaned forward, using his tongue to chase one last drop of come that welled up at the slit of Billy’s cock. “Christ,” Billy said, and collapsed slowly into Dom’s lap, draping himself over Dom without a trace of self-consciousness.

“I needed that,” Dom said.

“Amen,” Billy said. He still sounded winded. “Sorry it was so fast,” he added.

Dom’s hands drifted up over his back, into his hair. “And I took how long?” he asked dryly. “I think we waited long enough.”

“Just long enough,” Billy said. His head lay heavily on Dom’s shoulder, face turned away; his hands wriggled until he had his arms around Dom. “S’better without feeling guilty, after.”

“That’s probably true,” Dom agreed. He was sleepy and warm, and very much enjoying the sensation of having a sleepy, warm Billy in his lap. “Definitely should have been wearing kilts, though. Would’ve made everything easier.”

“Mmm.” Billy nodded, squirming closer. His chest hair rasped against Dom’s mostly smooth chest. “Easy access is a beautiful thing.”

“So what _do_ you want to do tonight?” Dom asked. “It’s only half-three in the afternoon.”

Billy lifted his head, sitting up and swinging his leg over Dom to settle beside him, tucked close against him. “I dunno,” he admitted. “I was just going to, you know, get drunk and be maudlin.”

“So, just another night in Glasgow,” Dom said.

Billy pinched his thigh, then ran his hand up to cup Dom’s soft, sticky cock. “Yeah, pretty much. I think I can do better now, though.”

“Better than being a lonely, bitter drunk?” Dom grinned. “I’m flattered.”

“I was thinking,” Billy said (as if he hadn’t heard Dom), “that maybe we could take a shower.”

“That would be nice,” Dom said. He kept running his hands over Billy; he’d turned sideways to do it, and it felt so good. All that naked Scot, just for him. “Then what?”

“Then.” Billy closed his eyes. “Mm, that feels nice.” Dom did it again (Billy’s hair was mussed and soft, and it felt good, carding his fingers through it) and waited. “Then we could get you dressed up, and get me dressed up, and go have a proper date – dinner, maybe. Somewhere posh.”

“I am hungry,” Dom said. “But I don’t have any nicer clothes here.”

“But I do,” Billy said. “I’ve got a couple of kilts that might fit you well enough, and you have boots and a jumper.” He dragged his nose and sandpaper-rough chin along Dom’s shoulder and neck; Dom shuddered, fingers tightening in Billy’s hair. “And they’re not pure wool, so you should be all right in them.”

“Er,” Dom said. His prick was making a valiant attempt at a comeback. “That sounds... horrible. Really, terrible,” he said.

“Mm-hmm.” Billy lifted his head and looked at Dom, smiling a little. “And then maybe we could come back here and I could fuck you.”

“Oh.” Dom blinked, and thought about that. His prick had experienced some carnal version of a religious experience, and was arguing for its born-again status. “Yeah. Yes, that sounds like something we could do. Should do.”

Billy kissed him, long and slow and dirty, and Dom forgot how to breathe for a while.

“Okay,” Billy said. “Shower then, aye?” He clambered backwards off Dom’s lap, wincing as he straightened his legs, offering Dom a hand up.

Dom grasped his hand and let himself be pulled upright; his cock was half-hard, bumping Billy’s thigh as they collided, smiling. “Impressive recovery time,” Billy said, eying Dom’s midsection.

“Just like an Englishman,” Dom said, propping one hand on his waist and jutting his hips.

Billy reached and gripped, still grinning; Dom squeaked and clutched at his shoulders. “Just for a Scot,” he said, and Dom had to agree, not really reluctantly at all.

~*~

**THE END**


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